


One Last Chance

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Pre-Trespasser, Rescue Missions, Slavery, Tevinter Imperium, tags will be added as story progresses, the dawn squad - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-05-27 09:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15021311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: In which Inquisitor Riven Lavellan receives a letter from a clanmate in dire need of help, and only Hanin recognises the name.(Please note: there are very few canon characters featured in this story. I'm just uploading it to my AO3 for interested parties who prefer to read on here!)





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Inquisitor Riven Lavellan and Tahl Hildessen belong to Chaitea09 (on Tumblr)
> 
> After some of my lovely Tumblr folks found out about Athran's unfortunate situation and his past romantic connection with Hanin, there seemed to be some interest in a possible rescue arc. So... here it is! I am not sure how long it will end up being, but I hope you like it <3
> 
> Alternative title: Grand Theft Athran

Most mornings for Hanin were spent in a kind of simple routine. First, he woke, stretching out stiff muscles against linen sheets, arching until he felt his spine reach its natural limit. Rising, he would wash his face, a bowl of water ready and awaiting his attention, letting the water run slightly down his neck and chest before wiping it away with a cloth. That done, he would dress simple and clean, his shirt and trousers laid out from the previous night, ready to be slipped into at a moment’s notice. His boots were much the same, unlaced and waiting, the worn leather begging for replacement. Another thing to tend to that day.

But it was Hanin’s hair that always took the most time.

It was the only thing he could not prepare in advance. Before sleeping, he would release it from its braided knot, finding it far simpler to start afresh than attempt to resurrect a night’s worth of wear. That meant in the morning, dressed and awake, he spent at least ten minutes sitting cross-legged on his bed, his hands working away, his eyes attempting to catch his reflection in the glass of the window by his bed. Some days were easier than others. Luckily, even on the days where the sun made seeing himself nearly impossible, muscle-memory served its function.

It was during one such process, just a few moments from finishing, that Hanin received a sharp series of knocks on his door. Surprised at the frantic pace - he was unused to even being disturbed before noon now that Corypheus had been defeated - Hanin stood, fingers still working at his hair. By the time he reached the door and opened it, he had secured it in place with a final twist of his tie.

Before him stood one of Leliana’s scouts. Hanin’s expression immediately shifted into a frown and the man tensed, standing a little straighter, moving into a shaky salute.

“S-Sir Lavellan, uh, sir!”

 _Creators preserve him_.

Hanin sighed out his nose, trying to maintain the peaceful mood of the morning despite the disturbance. “Report.”

The scout swallowed. “The Inquisitor requests to see you, sir! She stated the matter was urgent.”

His frown deepened. He couldn’t even begin to think what the problem might be. “Where?”

“In the War Room.”

“Very well. Tell her I am on my way.”

 

* * *

 

By the time Hanin arrived in the War Room, there was already a small crowd gathered around the map.

“This could work,” Josephine was in the process of saying, bowed alongside Riven over her clipboard. “With Dorian and his contacts raising concern over the Venatori, and the recent actions of Corypheus and his followers, we might be able to negotiate a meeting on the matter.”

“It would serve two functions,” Leliana agreed. She moved like a shadow behind the pair, hands behind her back, keen eyes narrowed and thoughtful as she paced in a slow line. “First, to deal with the Venatori threat. Second, to deal with the matter of your clanmate.”

At that, Hanin’s ears pricked. Striding into the room, he made his presence known at the table with a curt nod, settling in between Varlen and Cullen, the latter of whom seemed close to rubbing his beard off in agitation. “I see the value of the expedition,” the Commander said, eyes locked on the war map, honed in on Tevinter, “but Maker, we need to exercise _caution_. The Imperium is a dangerous place. Inquisitor or no, you will need to be careful. Not everyone sees value in what we do.”

Riven nodded slowly at that. Her attention remained on Josephine’s clipboard, blue eyes shifting back and forth, following the lines on the paper, re-reading them over and over. “Yes,” she murmured after a moment, “even with Dorian’s support, we will need to prepare countermeasures.” Glancing up, she shifted her gaze from Cullen to Leliana. “I take it you both have some ideas on that?”

Leliana’s lips curved, dancing a fine line between a smile and a smirk. “Your trust is well-placed, Inquisitor.”

Cullen, for his part, gave a stiff nod, his mind distant, no doubt moving pieces on a mental chessboard. “A show of force may be needed. _To an extent_ , of course. We have to prove we remain a serious faction, even after Corypheus’ defeat. Josephine,” Cullen straightened, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword as he addressed the ambassador, “could we consult the matter? You would know better than I the, ah… _appropriate_ amount of soldiers to march over the Imperium’s border without raising concern.”

Josephine smiled and nodded. “Gladly, Commander. As for the other matter…” Her grey eyes flicked to Hanin. Even though they had decided to step away from their relationship, it was sometimes difficult for Hanin to let go of that tightness in his chest at her attention. “Perhaps the three of you would prefer some time to discuss?”

Riven nodded before Hanin had a chance to respond, and he was glad for it. After all, he truly had no idea what was going on. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine took their leave graciously, the three of them engaging in soft murmurs of strategy as they left. The moment the doors shut, Hanin frowned and turned his attention to Varlen and Riven.

“What is this about a _clanmate_?” He didn’t dare get his hopes up. It was foolish to ever let it go so far. But he would be lying if he said no small part of him stirred at the notion, longing for it to be true. Be it for recovery or revenge, he no longer cared. Either would suit him well. “Was Tevinter involved in…?”

He needn’t say it, so he let the sentence taper off. Varlen and Riven exchanged uncertain glances, before the Inquisitor placed the clipboard on the table and slid it across to Hanin. “I’m… not sure about that. But I received a letter this morning.”

“From someone claiming to be part of our clan,” Varlen added, arms folded as he stood beside his sister. “I mean, _I’ve_ never heard of him, and neither has Riv.”

Riven nodded, although her attention remained on Hanin. “So we wanted to know if you recognised the name.” She paused, a soft breath holding her thoughts from her lips for a moment. “As much as I want to believe there are others from clan Lavellan who still live, I cannot discount the possibility of a trap.”

It was a fair caution. Hanin grunted his agreement as he reached out and drew the clipboard towards him. The letter was a simple affair, the parchment poor quality, the ink so watered down it was barely visible. Whoever sent it had done so either slyly or with limited means. Without further ado, Hanin began to read.

* * *

 

>   _ **Inquisitor Riven Lavellan,**_
> 
> __
> 
> **_You likely do not know me, but I do not know where else to turn. When you were a child, I was taken from our clan by slavers. For the past eleven years, I have been kept by the altus Talveron Idaris at his estate in Perivantium ._ **
> 
> **_I know you will not remember me, but I fear this is my only chance. I have finally gathered enough to bribe one of Talveron’s servants to smuggle out this message. If I am caught, it may mean my death. Creators preserve me, but I have to try._ **
> 
> **_Ma halani. Please. I cannot continue like this.  
>    
>  _ **
> 
> **_Athran Lavellan_ **

* * *

 Athran.

_Athran Lavellan._

“Hanin… are you alright?” Varlen took a wary step forward but Hanin raised a hand, noticing for the first time the tremor in his limbs; the quivering of the clipboard in his grasp.

“I know him,” he breathed. The room seemed to fall away, until all that was left was himself and that letter. Himself and that name. “I… _we_...”

“He is clan, then?” Riven’s voice was calm, her tone a natural counterpoint to her brother’s. It was enough to gently draw Hanin from his own mind, the warrior finally lifting his eyes from the letter to meet hers. Where her voice was even, her gaze was where she showed her concern.

“Yes.” Hanin swallowed dryly, feeling strangely nauseous, his gaze drifting back down to the parchment. “He is.”

That _thrum_. Hanin hadn’t felt it in years at such strength. It was like a drumbeat inside his skull; an impossible command. Impossible to ignore. The urge to stuff the letter in his pocket and march to Tevinter within the hour ran like a river through his veins, so close to breaking its banks that all sense had fled.

It was his other clanmates, Riven and Varlen, who kept him in place.

“Did you know him?” Riven shifted, leaning her hands on the edge of the War Table, silently tracing the line between Skyhold and Tevinter with her eyes. “This _Athran_?”

_Did he know Athran?_

“Yes.” Uncertain of how much more he should say, Hanin chose to leave it at that. “He was a hunter, a year older than me. I thought…” Shaking his head, Hanin re-read the letter, Varlen and Riven sharing a long look but saying nothing to interrupt. It was kind of them. Hanin wasn’t sure he could keep pace with all the thoughts churning in his mind, yet alone a conversation. Eventually, upon reaching the end of the letter - upon reaching _that name_ \- Hanin found his voice once more. “We thought he was dead.”

Varlen wrinkled his nose, moving around the map to stand closer to Tevinter. “Well, if his letter’s anything to go by, it might have been better if he was.”

“Varlen!” Riven’s appalled face was strong enough for both her and Hanin, the remark hitting the warrior like a slap to the face. Varlen immediately winced, cursing softly under his breath.

“Shit, sorry. _Sorry._ I just… you know what I mean.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Dorian told me some things, back when he was trying to convince me not to go with him to Tevinter. I don’t know if they’re all true, but if they are...”

“I understand,” Riven said carefully, and Hanin didn’t miss the way her eyes flicked over to him, “but that’s not helping right now.”

“I know.” Varlen chewed on his lip, clearly taking a bit more time to think before he spoke. “Okay. We need a plan, then. If we have a clanmate out there, we need to get him back. I’m not going to just sit here and let him stay a slave.”

“Nor am I.” Taking a deep breath, Riven motioned for Hanin to join them on her side of the table. Still feeling somewhat in a trance, Hanin obeyed the silent order, clipboard in hand, that letter staring up at him accusingly. In his mind, it spoke words that had not been written by Athran’s shaking hand. _Why didn’t you look harder? How could you just give up? Did you really care so little about what happened to me?_

They were all questions Hanin hadn’t asked himself for a long time.

But that was only because he had asked them so many times over the years they had lost all meaning.

“We were discussing the situation before you arrived,” Riven continued. She reached out, gently touching Hanin’s forearm, bringing him back to the present moment. “It is possible to set up a meeting between the Inquisition and some Tevinter magisters in regards to the Venatori presence in the south.”

“Not many, mind you,” Varlen added, leaning on the edge of the War Table. “Most aren’t exactly _open minded_ about the whole thing. But Dorian should be able to wrangle up enough that it looks legitimate.”

“It _is_ legitimate,” Riven corrected, “but we also don’t all need to be at the meeting. Perivantium is between the Tevinter capital and the border. If we arrange for it to take place there, Josephine said it would hardly seem suspicious.”

Slowly, Hanin nodded. It all made sense, and for the time being, that had to be enough. He doubted he would have anything of value to add for a while, at the very least. “I want my squad with me.”

As though expecting no less, both Riven and Varlen nodded. “Have them ready to travel in a week’s time,” Riven said. “We should have the main details organised by then. As for Athran’s situation…” Her fingers absently worried the cuff of her sleeve, brow creased in thought. “Well, there’s not really much we can do until we see what we are dealing with. I will ask Leliana to find out details of his estate.”

“Yes. Thank you. That will help.” The response must have sounded as mechanical as it felt, because the next thing Hanin knew he was looking up at a pair of worried faces.

“You, ah… sure you’re okay?” Varlen asked again. “You look like you’re about to keel over. No offense.” He turned to his sister. “I _knew_ we should have told him to sit down.”

“I’m _fine_.” Hanin took a deep, steadying breath, preparing himself to walk away. But he hesitated after a moment, his hand still on the clipboard. “The letter…”

Riven expression softened. Reaching over, she opened the metal clip, letting the paper slide free. “Take it. Josephine already made a copy.”

Not sure why it mattered so much to him, Hanin just nodded his thanks, tucked the letter into his pocket, and left. There was much to do.

His boots would have to wait.


	2. Cope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rediscovery of a piece of his past fresh on his mind, Hanin struggles throughout the week to keep himself together. Luckily, where he is not willing to seek help, he finds it offered by someone close to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riven Lavellan belongs to the lovely Chaitea09 on Tumblr.

The week moved so slowly Hanin thought he might go mad. His routine, which had once brought him the comfort of familiarity, suddenly became an arduous chore, each step taking too long to complete, each piece not quite fitting into its proper place. Morning training with the squad passed in a blur, the rest of the day little more than a series of back-and-forth pacing, the letter in his pocket a weight he could not ignore. Meetings occurred, majority of which he was invited to attend. Majority of which he had no memory of once they adjourned. Frustration followed, knowing they were important. Frustration remained, knowing that didn’t seem to matter.

It was the day before that Hanin was summoned to Riven’s personal quarters.

He had just finished up the morning spars, giving the squad the rest of the day off to pack and ready themselves for the journey north. The usual messenger arrived, breathless and red-cheeked, although far more used to Hanin’s gruff acknowledgement than he had been on their first meeting. As a result, the exchange was mercifully brief, and soon Hanin found himself at Riven’s door.

“You asked for me.”

The Inquisitor, who had been sitting at her desk pouring over a stack of papers, started slightly, apparently so absorbed in what she had been doing she had not seen Hanin’s shape darken her doorway. “Oh, yes. Come in, lethallin.”

She rose as he entered, crossing in front of her desk, their paths meeting at the centre of the large rug that adorned the floor. They stood there for a moment, Hanin looking down at Riven, Riven’s eyes raised to meet his. There was a tension there, but neither seemed to know what to do with it. It was a tension of questions left unasked.

“Are you and your squad prepared?” Riven seemed content to start simple, offering a faint smile as she moved away. A pot of tea brewed on a table by the fireplace, which she checked by raising the lid and wafting the steam towards her face.

Unsure of what to do, Hanin cleared his throat softly. “Yes. They are… aware of the situation. We intend to travel light.”

Riven nodded, gathering a pair of cups, setting them beside the pot. “A good idea. Anything else you might need on the journey there can be provided by the caravans.” Slowly, she began to pour a cup, steam curling into the air. Then, she glanced up, catching Hanin’s curious gaze. “Will you try this with me? Tahl recommended it. It’s meant to be quite popular among the Avvar.”

Seeing no reason to decline, Hanin moved over to join her, accepting a cup stiffly, the delicate object seeming out of place in his rough hands. Riven continued, pouring one for herself, the almost nutty smell of the tea filling the air around them.

“Lethallen,” Hanin began slowly, raising his attention from the cup to her face, “was there something you needed?”

Riven paused for a moment, then gave a soft laugh. “I suppose I should get to the point, shouldn’t I? You must have a lot on your mind.”

Typically, Hanin would deny such an accusation, however kindly delivered. That was because most people mistook his silence for deep contemplation, rather than simply an absence of speech. But Riven was not one to make such comments lightly, and he had to admit, she was right. As the departure date grew closer, he found himself lost in his own mind, plans and strategies making knots of his thoughts, tangling them until he couldn’t follow one from its beginning to its logical end.

“I do,” was all he said in response, and he followed her lead when she sat down in one of the nearby chairs, motioning for him to do the same. The fireplace crackled invitingly between them. “What did you need of me?”

Releasing a soft breath, Riven just shook her head, hands wrapped around her cup. “Nothing, Hanin. That’s not why we’re here.” She seemed a little uncomfortable, at least to Hanin, but he could hardly blame her for that. While she had assumed her rightful role as Keeper, it was clear she was still growing used to the mantle. Among her many others. He imagined it must feel strange, speaking to him from a position of authority within the clan. For so long, the dynamic had seemed… well, quite the opposite. “I wanted to check on you,” Riven continued, the words careful as they left her lips. “You seem… troubled. More than Varlen and I expected.”

“Did your brother put you up to this?” Hanin wasn’t sure why, but he found himself immediately on the defensive, walls going up before he even had a chance to question them. “I am as troubled as I should be, given the circumstances.”

But Riven did not flinch. “No, he didn’t put me up to anything, Hanin. But he _is_ worried about you. We both are.” She took a breath, then, shoulders rising, the steam from the tea a soothing presence in otherwise tense air. “I want to make sure you are not going to do anything… careless.”

Hanin frowned. “That is not how I operate.”

“Normally, yes, I would agree. But…” Riven pursed her lips, her expression troubled. “You have not been yourself this past week, lethallin. Varlen and I are not the only ones to notice that.”

Again, the instinct to deny it all surged. “Who, then?” He felt his grip tighten on the cup, and had to consciously warn himself not to break it. “I have completed my duties to satisfaction.”

“Of course you have. That is not the problem. As for who… well, the people who are closest to you are the ones most worried.”

It took Hanin a moment to realise what she was saying. “My squad?” He frowned, not sure what to make of it. Not sure why they would not bring up their issues with him directly. “Their training has not changed.”

“Their training is not why they are concerned.” Riven sighed properly this time, and Hanin could sense a kind of restrained frustration in the act. That, more than anything, told him something he needed to know. She was tense, too. They all were. His stubbornness was not what any of them needed right now. If there was a problem, he had to hear it before he could even attempt to address it.

“Ir abelas. Speak, lethallen. I… will listen.”

Perhaps he should have felt insulted by the flash of surprise that crossed Riven’s face, but in the end, he couldn’t blame her. He had been difficult, to put it lightly. The fact that she had remained as patient as she had with him was a testament to her character, not his. “Ma serannas.” She offered him a soft, grateful smile before continuing. “Hanin… I don’t know who Athran is, or even how well you might have known him. That is fine. All I want to know is that you will not place yourself, or your life, at unnecessary risk for this mission.”

_Unnecessary risk_.

“Risk is a… difficult thing to determine.” Hanin shifted, his untouched tea still warm in his hands. “I intend to return Athran to the clan. Where he _belongs_.” He met her gaze, holding it. “Whatever needs to be done to ensure that, to me, is a necessary risk.”

That answer, it seemed, did little to alleviate Riven’s concerns. “That is what worries me, Hanin. I know you are not the kind of man to rush into something without thought, but all of this… it has left me, and others, questioning your judgement.”

The confession stung like a slap to the face. In truth, it hurt even more than when Josephine had called him a brute, all those months ago.

Yet, just as with Josephine, Hanin knew he deserved it.

“If I have worried you, I can only apologise. This… was not something I ever expected.” How much should he say? How much _could_ he say? So many years had passed; he truly believed he had put it all behind him. But reading Athran’s name at the bottom of that letter was like being flung back ten years in the span of seconds. Alone, Hanin just couldn’t seem to recover.

But he was not alone.

“I don’t want an apology, lethallin. I want to know if you are okay.” Leaning forward slightly, Riven’s gaze was warm. Patient. Encouraging without demanding a thing. “Did you… know Athran well?”

Hanin felt his pulse quicken at the question, his body responding as though he had suddenly been faced by a threat. It was ridiculous. It made no logical sense.

It was a testament to how badly he needed to speak to someone.

Riven was there, sitting in front of him, willing to listen. Willing to wait as he gathered his thoughts and pieced them into something he might be able to share. Perhaps it was also her right to know as much about the situation as possible, given her position as Keeper of the clan.

Perhaps that was just a convenient excuse to help Hanin begin.

“As I said, Athran was a hunter, close to my age. Well-liked. Brave. Intelligent. Warm. Everyone knew him, in some way.” Hanin worked his jaw, trying to find the right set of words to do the man justice. “I knew few people closely, but… I _knew_ him.”

Riven tilted her head slightly to the side. “You were friends, then?”

Blood rushing in his ears, Hanin closed his eyes for a moment, trying to focus on things that were tangible. The splintering of the wood in the fire. The warmth of the cup in his hands. The dryness of his throat as he dragged forth the words.

“More than friends.”

Once they were out, they were out. It was like releasing a long-held breath, only for Hanin to find himself holding the next one, waiting tensely for a response.

“It’s alright, Hanin.”

They sat in silence for a time, the heaviness of it stretching between them. The fire seemed impossibly loud, crackling to the point that Hanin had to turn his face away from it and the wavering glow it cast throughout the room. He didn’t know what to say. But it was _alright._

So he said the truth.

“Riven… I have no plan.”

“I know.” The Inquisitor shifted, her shadow bending in the firelight. She let the soft-spoken words hang for a time, offering space for Hanin to continue. When he did not, she did. “We are still receiving information, lethallin. Every day. There is time. We will confer with Leliana and Commander Cullen for the best course of action as we travel north. Between us all, we will think of something.” Slowly, carefully, she reached out, placing a comforting yet firm hand on Hanin’s wrist. “You are not alone in this. You know that, don’t you?”

Hanin swallowed, his throat traitorously tight. He took the opportunity to raise the cup to his lips and take a sip, the warm liquid helping loosen the knot that had formed at the centre of his neck. “I know,” he said eventually. Yet, for whatever reason, those words hadn’t been true until the precise moment he spoke them. “Ma serannas, lethallen. I… needed that.”

Riven just nodded, her expression soft and understanding as she leaned back, the pair returning to a pause of quiet contemplation. Something changed, in that moment. A weight that had threatened to crush Hanin from the inside shifted slightly, like a person taking a step to the right in a crowded room. Suddenly, there was a little more space. A little more room to think. It wasn’t over; Hanin was still trapped in that crowded room; but for the time being, he could breathe. Cope.

He just needed to cope.


	3. The Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long and stressful journey, the group finally arrives in Perivantium. With the meeting to be held at altus Talveron Idaris' estate, Hanin truly has no idea what to expect.
> 
> Even then, he was still surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Riven Lavellan and Tahl Hildessen belong to the lovely Chaitea09 on Tumblr <3

> _Blond hair, long enough to tumble past strong shoulders, long enough for Hanin to thread through his fingers as Athran lay against his chest. The hunter’s breathing was slow and calm, his eyes closed, his face tucked into the hollow beneath Hanin’s chin. There was something to be said about slow nights. They were the kind that lingered like an uncertain touch, reaching out yet unsure of how long to stay. How long to hold on. Instinctively, Hanin shifted, tightening the arm he had draped around Athran’s waist, drawing the man closer. Athran murmured something in his sleep, but did not wake, choosing instead to nestle against Hanin and welcome the shared warmth._
> 
> _Slow nights were difficult to come by. Perhaps that was why Hanin had grown to love them so much._

* * *

The sound of a horn startled Hanin from his reverie, his horse skipping a step forward as he accidentally jerked the reins. Glancing about, adrenaline spiking at potential trouble, Hanin waited for an additional signal. One that would tell him what to do.

“No need for alarm.” A deep, almost melodic voice sounded to Hanin’s right, drawing his attention across to Tahl. The Avvar was dressed in his usual furs and leathers, although a somewhat lighter version than was typical, given the warmer climate. “The forward scout has spotted your city. Perivantium.”

Sure enough, as Tahl finished his sentence, two short blasts from the horn set the procession of soldiers and representatives at ease, postures immediately relaxing in saddles, hands drifting away from the hilts of blades. Their destination had been sighted. If all went well, they would arrive by nightfall at where the meeting was to be held.

The estate of altus Talveron Idaris.

“How did you know?” Hanin asked, partly curious, partly attempting small-talk to help quiet his nerves. There was so much at stake. They had a plan, albeit a loose one. He could not seem to shake the fear that it would all come crumbling down around him.

Smiling, Tahl gestured forward. “The soldiers at your front line. None of them had drawn their weapons.” He shrugged amiably, swaying with the movement of his horse. “If there was a fight, I like to think they would be ready.”

A fair assessment. Hanin grunted his agreement, flexing his hand around the reins. He’d been gripping them so tightly his fingers ached. It seemed Tahl picked up on the motion, his brown eyes lingering on him for a moment. “Are you well, Hanin? You seem tense.”

Another fair assessment. “That is because I am.” There was no point in denying it, so Hanin didn’t bother. He just huffed, part of him wishing he could expel some of the unease writhing beneath his skin. “Everything about this is dangerous. For Riven. For the soldiers. For…” He trailed off, not wanting to say Athran’s name so openly. Majority of the retinue knew nothing of the journey’s second purpose, and that was for good reason. They could not risk being uncovered before they even began. A single set of loose lips could ruin everything they had planned.

Luckily, Tahl did not require further explanation. “This was never going to be a simple thing.” He looked ahead, his eyes fixing on where Riven rode, her hart a proud visage among a sea of horses. “It is why I asked to attend. There is little for me to do, but I can provide another set of eyes and ears.”

Hanin nodded. “That is worth more than you know.” He hesitated, then added, “Aside from that, Riven appreciates you being here. You are a comfort to her.”

“And her to me.” Tahl took a deep, slow breath, his lips curving into an almost distracted smile as he watched her lean down to listen to the report of a scout. “I may join her, then, as we draw near.”

Nothing more needed to be said, and Tahl rode ahead, weaving through the soldiers until he drew alongside the Inquisitor. Strangely, Hanin felt the man’s absence by his side. There was something oddly grounding about him, like a stone that refused to shift before a hurricane. He could see why Riven was drawn to such a person.

“Um… sir?”

Another voice, this one far more familiar. Hanin turned slightly as Darren pulled up alongside him. “What is it?”

The boy - no, _young man_ \- seemed uneasy, his brow knitted tight, his movements skittish. That was not particularly out of the ordinary, so Hanin paid it no special mind. “I heard Perivantium is coming up. When we get there, are we staying with the group, or…?”

Hanin nodded. “Yes, for a time. We will be blending in with the other soldiers. Make sure everyone has a helmet on, and stay close enough to hear orders if needed.”

The city was upon them sooner than Hanin expected, the hillside of outer-Tevinter apparently masking Perivantium’s presence until the scouts crested one of the larger rises. It was a matter of hours before the procession of horses, soldiers, and wagons reached the imposing city gates, the metalwork reminding Hanin of a series of blades, points stabbing towards the sky. He eyed them warily as they passed beneath, the structure almost seeming to creak before a persistent dry wind. Perhaps it was his body language, or his lack of anything at all, but the next thing Hanin knew he was surrounded by familiar faces, the five members of his squad closing in to walk beside his horse. A sixth soldier joined them as they entered the city and began winding their way towards altus Talveron’s estate. That was Hanin’s cue.

Swiftly and carefully, Hanin swung down from the saddle, the other soldier of similar height and build taking his place on horseback. As soon as his feet hit the ground, a helmet was pressed into his hands, its design matching the those of the other soldiers as they fell into a formal march. The less any of them stood out among the crowd, the better. Just to be safe, they dispersed slightly, spreading through the procession, falling into line in pairs. Cyrus remained by Hanin’s side, the others positioning themselves nearby, each clad in a shining steel helmet, their feet pounding to the steady rhythm. Despite the situation, Hanin couldn’t suppress the swelling of warmth in his chest at his squad’s calm readiness. They had grown so much, since joining the Inquisition. The people they had become would make anyone proud.   

“Man, what a fucking _ugly_ city.”

Hanin mouth twitched, his gaze shifting across to Cyrus. He considered scolding the man, but as far as he was concerned, Tevinter was not worth defending. “In more ways than one.”

The Orlesian’s nose wrinkled in agreement, his pale eyes glancing about, noting the increasing amount of Perivantium soldiers lining the road. “Why does some part of me feel like we’re going to get stabbed in the back?”

More soldiers seemed to appear, forming a makeshift honour guard as they proceeded towards the estate, their long glaive-esque weapons reminiscent of the gates themselves, iron-wrought and grim. “Because it is a… valid concern.” It might have been Hanin’s imagination, but it almost seemed like Cyrus moved an inch or two closer to his side as they walked. Thankfully, it was not long before they arrived at the barrier to the estate.

Awaiting them stood a figure in elegant gold and amber robes, the sleeves widening so far at the wrist that when the man clasped his hands, they hung down to his waist. He appeared in his mid-fifties, a collection of fine lines gathering like an eager crowd at the corners of his eyes, deeper ones framing the shape of his mouth, giving him the impression of a person as quick to smile as he was to scowl. His hair and beard were a dark black dusted with grey, cropped short and neat, not a single hair out of place. When he stepped forward, his expression seemed to shift, lips curving politely upwards, one hand breezing to the side as he bowed before the mounted Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, esteemed guests, it is my honour to welcome you all to my humble estate. I trust your journey was a pleasant one, and the sights of Perivantium have been to your liking?”

Riven inclined her head at the man, her face set in an equally polite mask. It was one she had perfected during their ordeal at the Winter Palace. “You must be Talveron Idaris. Myself, and the Inquisition, thank you for your hospitality at such short notice.” She bowed her head to him and the man straightened, seeming pleased by the exchanged; perhaps even pleasantly surprised. For whatever prejudices the South held against elves, in Tevinter they could only be more deeply ingrained.

“Not at all. The pleasure was mine. Truly.” Stepping out of the gate, he fanned his hand, rings glittering on each of his fingers. Responding to the signal, a handful of servants straightened from their bowed positions and approached, carefully taking the reins of mounts, allowing the visiting dignitaries to dismount and proceed on-foot to the manor. Hanin’s eyes honed in on each of them with hawk-like precision, his heart rising to his throat as he searched their faces. It fell like a rock when none of them struck any note of familiarity, the mixture of elves and humans bearing no resemblance to Athran. He almost jumped out of his skin when Cyrus rested a hand on his arm, somehow sensing his disappointment, attempting to silently reassure. Swallowing, Hanin just nodded stiffly. They had only just arrived. He had to be _patient_.

But Creators, Athran had been patient for far too long. Patiently waiting for a rescue that never arrived.

The Inquisitor and her advisors split off from the main group, only a handful of trusted servants and Tahl accompanying them to the main house. It was an enormous mansion, large enough to rival a seasonal palace, and only a touch less austere in its embellishments. Many of the soldiers openly gawked as they were ushered towards their own accommodations by household guards, the columns and intricately sculpted balconies standing like works of art beneath a sloping slate roof. Hanin’s eyes, however, were on the armed men in uniforms of black and amber - the servile colours of house Idaris, he assumed. Many seemed the sort who would provide protection to a nobleman, their postures rigid and militaristic, trained to operate as a single unit. Others, however, seemed rougher around the edges, dark-ringed eyes and scarred skin suggesting work well beyond the safety of city walls.

“The altus has hired mercenaries,” Hanin murmured to Cyrus. They followed a paved path around the side of the manor, the way lit by a series of lanterns affixed to ornate poles as the sun spilled its dying colours across the sky. “He is expecting trouble.”

Cyrus eyed the nearby guards warily, but ultimately shook his head. “Stop panicking. It’s not that uncommon. If you’re playing host to important people, you try to look better-off than you are. So you hire some thugs and dress them up. Probably borrow a bunch of servants from friends, too.” He snorted with no shortage of derision. “Welcome to _politics_. Seems it doesn’t fucking change, no matter what border you cross.”

So there were guards and trained mercenaries, likely all with wary eyes on the Inquisition’s soldiers. Hanin tried not to let the grimness of the situation overtake his sensibility. There would be a way. A change of guard. A blind spot. An opening. If not, they would just have to find a way to make one, when the time came.

The housing for the soldiers was far less austere than the manor, but still a far cry fancier than the barracks provided by the Inquisition. Testament to the Tevinter preference for design over function, Hanin supposed. Recalling Leliana’s instructions from the day before, he and the Dawn Squad slowed their walking, pretending to be utterly in awe of the magnificence of the fountains and sculptures that adorned the estate’s gardens. Soon, they found themselves at the back of the group of soldiers, their procession slowing as they reached the buildings and began filing inside.

“Hold a moment.” One of the guards, a clean-shaven human with features that could be comfortably described as _unremarkable_ , held out a hand, halting Hanin and his squad a few feet from the building. Stepping towards a small group of guards, they exchanged a series of low murmurs, peered inside, then appeared to come to some kind of gruff form of agreement. The clean-cut man nodded and returned, expression stiff, his tone bordering on apologetic. “It appears the main barracks is at capacity. You six will be staying in the overflow quarters further around back.” He turned, motioning for them to follow. “It’s nothing special, but it is a roof and a bed.”

Cyrus huffed and rolled his eyes, muttering darkly under his breath. The man truly took to irritation like a fish to water. For his part, Hanin just gave a stiff nod, gesturing for his squad to fall into step as they broke away from the main group, pressing further down the pristine path. Until they were alone, he had to simply assume this was all according to Leliana’s plan.

The guard led them for a few minutes, always staying three paces ahead, not once looking back, his posture arrow-straight, his hand resting readily atop the hilt of his blade. Unlike some of the others, this man was clearly well-trained, no doubt beaten into shape by the hammer of noble servitude. He slowed slightly as they approached another building, this one far smaller and far less welcoming. Where the rest of the estate was maintained to the point of obsession, here the trees and bushes grew with a more natural shape, the branches of a nearby oak spreading wide, casting a net of leaves above the homely rectangular building. For Hanin, it was strangely reassuring. A small piece of familiarity in this strange, manicured world.

“Not much further,” the guard said, glancing over his shoulder. His dark eyes flicked about quickly, like a sparrow darting between trees, before coming to rest on Hanin. When he spoke again, it was with a lowered voice. “I will explain properly when we are inside.”

A small flutter of relief danced through Hanin’s chest and he nodded, glad that particular uncertainty had been lifted. It was difficult to tell who was an agent and who was not. Asking was not exactly a wise course of action, in any case. That said, neither was _assuming._

The door was weathered but sturdy, the wooden panelling thick and chipped in only a handful of places from careless passage. Reaching out, the guard took another furtive glance around and knocked six times, paused, then added one more. Without waiting for answer, he turned the handle and pushed the door open, the warm wind that had accompanied them brushing a handful of oak leaves into the space as they entered. Inside was simple enough. A handful of cots, a table, an assortment of mismatched chairs. The floor was bare panelling, matching the walls, the gaps between each beam filled with a kind of dark resin to keep out the wind and insects. Covered lamps hung at various points throughout the room, each positioned over a flat stone disc; a safeguard against the possibility of wood meeting flame

However, the most interesting thing by far were the six people already in the room, two dressed as servants, four as guards. Immediately, they rose from their various positions, forming a loose line before Hanin and his squad. The first was a tall man, olive skinned, his build suggesting a life of either soldiering or hard labour. Beside him stood a woman, short and pale, her blonde hair pulled into a tight braid, a light dusting of freckles scattered across her stern face. The next two were a man and a woman of darker complexion, possibly siblings, with brown hair pulled back to reveal a pair of curious, slightly amused faces. The last was a short blond elven man who, by his looks, Hanin could not imagine was older than twenty.

Stepping forward, the guard who had brought them to the building glanced between the two groups, smirking at look of shock on the Dawn Squad’s faces. 

“I believe introductions are in order.” He bowed sweepingly, the soldierly visage melting away, replaced by something that could only be described as theatrical. “My name is Launcet. That is all you really need to know about me, but rest assured, any friends of the Nightingale are friends of mine. As for this lot…” He stepped aside, allowing the two groups to eye each other once more, one row in stunned silence, the other in mounting amusement. “Dawn Squad, meet the _Dusk Squad_.”

A moment passed. Then another. Hanin’s mind stalled, his mouth slightly open, at a complete loss for what to make of the situation.

“Well,” Ralon said eventually. “This is reallyfucking weird.”


	4. Necessary Risks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a decoy squad in place, the plan begins to take shape. Hanin and Lyrene have their role to play, but they are not the only ones willing to take some risks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inquisitor Riven Lavellan belongs to Chaitea09 on Tumblr

Once the shock of meeting their doubles wore off, Hanin had to admit, it put to rest many of the concerns he had raised during their planning sessions on the road. How Leliana had managed to find a group that fit their descriptions well enough in such a short time remained a mystery to him, but he supposed that was entirely the point. The woman had connections in all corners, it seemed. He would do well to stop underestimating her. As it stood, three of them had introduced themselves as associates of the Nightingale. The two siblings, however, had simply offered a coy smile and referred to themselves as _friends_.

“Oh Maker, you’re a _bubbly one_ , aren’t you?” The blonde woman, Krissa, was sitting across from Lyrene, her scowl so fierce it reminded Hanin of a roused bear. But Lyrene just laughed, seemingly delighted by the entire affair, leaning forward in excitement in front of her double.

“Sure am! You’re going to have your work cut out for you. C’mon, let’s hear a laugh...”

The other four members of the squad were also spending a bit of time with their doubles, comparing mannerisms with varying levels of comfort. Ralon took to the idea without hesitation, and was in the process of pulling Daimon’s hair back into a style similar to his own, already laughing and joking with the man as though they had known each other for years. Connors was teaching her double, Livia, how to be silent. The other woman appeared to struggle with the concept, almost vibrating with the need to break the extended pauses with an awkward joke or question. Darren, for his part, was actually doing his best to mimic his double’s accent, the elven man apparently a Starkhaven native. The heavy syllables were impossible to mistake as they rolled off Ayden’s tongue between bouts of laughter, Darren’s face scrunching in effort before he mercifully gave up on the project and moved on to more relevant things. Cyrus seemed to take no interest whatsoever in his double, Kian, but the dark haired man had already perfected the Orlesian’s prickly attitude, his back to the wall, an irritated scowl affixed on his face.

As for Hanin, he was busy conferring with Launcet and his double, Cassius.

“The Nightingale’s instructions were clear. Your group is to be provided with a means to access Talveron’s estate with as little risk of discovery as possible.” The smirk had never really left Launcet’s face, but it widened slightly, the man apparently quite pleased with himself. “I was given a significant amount of freedom regarding how that happened, and not a lot of time to see it done. So I apologise if all of this was… well, something of a _shock_ to you. Although I think you would agree the result is quite remarkable.”

Eyes flicking up to meet Cassius’ for a moment, Hanin just nodded his head, still reeling from the sudden advantage they now held. “It solves a number of problems in one move. I don’t know how you did it, but I am impressed.” He shifted, folding his arms, brow creasing in thought as he regarded his own double more closely. “I only hope it works. There are... a number of differences.”

Eying Hanin right back, Cassius cocked a brow. “One being…?”

“You're not an elf.”

It was Launcet who laughed, he and Cassius exchanging glances. It seemed they had been expecting the remark. “That is why you were all instructed to wear those _attractive_ helmets, Sir Lavellan. The less the guards here know about any of you, the more chance this plan has of succeeding.”

“Besides,” Cassius added, “we will just be holding down the fort, for the most part. That way if what you’re doing goes arse-up in the middle of the night, your group won’t be missing from your beds.” He paused, then smirked. “Technically.”

Slowly, Hanin nodded. That had been one of the major concerns he’d had about the infiltration plan. Things going wrong aside, if any of the estate’s guards even so much as _checked_ on their accommodations, they would have found a suspiciously empty room. Now it seemed that, at least, would no longer be a problem.

“For the rest of the plan, you will need to get inside.” Launcet nodded towards the table, where a piece of parchment was unfurled, its corners weighed down by stones. The three of them approached, leaning over the sketched plan of the manor’s lower floor. “The servant’s quarters will be easy enough to access for you and the other elf. It’s here, at the back of the building, accessible through the kitchens. Once we cover up those markings on your faces, no one will spare you a second glance unless they want to beat you for something.” He looked up at that, catching Hanin’s eye. “Word of advice: _let them_. You don’t want to end up dragged in front of Talveron for fighting with a guard.”

As much as he despised the idea, Hanin nodded grimly. He had to keep his focus on the main goal. Anything else was…

… well, it was a necessary risk.

“Good. Now, slave’s are kept separate to paid servants. Talveron has been, ah, _benevolent_ enough to modify his cellar for the purpose.” There was no shortage of sarcasm in the remark as Launcet jabbed a finger at a room to the right of the servant quarters. “Again, you should have no trouble getting there. Those pointed ears of yours open more doors than you might think in a Tevinter estate.”

“How do we get out?” Hanin asked, choosing to ignore that last remark. “I assume the cellar entrance is guarded.”

Launcet nodded, reaching up to run a hand over his chin. “Look, let’s get one thing straight: you’re not going to be breaking your friend out tonight. So get that idea right out of your head.” When Hanin’s expression darkened, the man raised a hasty hand. “ _Easy_ there. What I’m saying is we need to plan it out. _Properly._ Things will probably change now that your Inquisition has arrived. I need to get a copy of the new guard rotation tonight. When I do, we’ll start talking about getting your friend out without raising every damn alarm in the building. This time around, you're just going to need to wait in the slave quarters for me to come get you.”

It made sense. Hanin _hated_ it, but it made sense. To his right, Cassius hesitated, then reached out, resting a heavy hand on Hanin’s shoulder. “Tonight, just find who you are looking for. Make contact. I know it is difficult, but we will only have one shot at this. We need to do it right.” He huffed out an uneasy laugh, releasing Hanin after a final squeeze. “And with as few bodies as possible, preferably.”

Hanin said nothing. He was not in the business of making promises he had no intention of keeping. At the end of the day, if someone was mad enough to stand in his way, he would remove them. It was as simple as that.

“So I’m being sent off to play servant with Hanin, huh?” Lyrene had wandered over, apparently giving up on trying to get Krissa to smile. “Sounds terrible. Not that I’m complaining.”

Cassius chuckled as he moved to make room for her at the table. “That sounded a lot like a complaint to me.”

“Alright, maybe a _little_.” She shrugged, glancing over at Hanin, then smiled. “But I suppose someone’s got to keep an eye on the Captain. Keep him out of trouble.”

It was a joke, but the laughter was purely for show. In truth, that was probably exactly why Hanin wasn’t going in alone. He had considered protesting - it was, after all, placing her in danger - but in the end, it was the plan. The way he saw it, he could either get on board with what Launcet had devised, or risk ruining everything.

With so much at stake, he refused to be a liability.

_They were so close._

“So,” Lyrene said after an extended pause, “how are we getting uniforms, exactly?”

Glancing pointedly between Cassius and Hanin, Launcet just smiled.

* * *

 Varlen shifted from foot to foot, a drink in hand, his sister by his side, the room a collection of expensive decor, priceless paintings, and garishly dressed Tevinter nobility. He had not expected the first night to involve a mixer, yet there they were, hastily bathed and brushed after their journey from Skyhold, fighting back the urge to yawn as Magisters and friends of Talveron brushed shoulders and exchanged endless platitudes.

“This place is making the Winter Palace seem like a _paradise_ ,” Varlen whispered to Riven, who snorted softly into her glass as she took a careful sip of wine. “At least there we could go… I don’t know… climb a trellis or something.”

“Josephine gave me quite the lecture about that, I’ll have you know.” She sighed, arms folded around herself, their formal attire more suited to meetings than festivities. Compared to the Tevinter nobility, they were about as entrancing as pebbles among jewels. “Part of me wishes Hanin was here, though. At least then we might… you know…”

Wincing, Varlen just nodded, his eyes once again making a customary sweep of the room. “Hard to look for someone you’ve never seen, huh?” He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “Although there aren’t a lot of blonds here, yet alone blond elves. That might help narrow it down.”

Riven hummed in agreement, and seemed about to speak when a Magister approached, all charming smiles and flattering words. He was one of the older members at the meeting; one Dorian had not expected to accept the invitation in the first place. The night was young, but his cheeks were already tinged a healthy shade of inebriated pink, a slight sway to his steps that had nothing to do with age. So Riven’s attention was frustratingly diverted, and she donned a polite smile as he congratulated her on the Inquisition’s handling of Corypheus. Varlen, sensing he would be of no real use in that conversation, decided to take the opportunity to scope the room.

After a deep gulp of wine to steady his nerves, Varlen forged into the elaborate display of wealth and finery, moving carefully between nobility and Magisters, trying his best not to make contact with anyone lest he accidently rope himself into small talk. Not that there was too much risk of that. Being an elf, the Tevinter upper class seemed uncomfortable around him at the least, and downright disinterested at the worst. Fortunately, unlike at the Winter Palace, Varlen was unlikely to be mistaken as a servant here; each member of the household staff were clad in crisp dark uniforms adorned with a delicate golden filigree. As much as Varlen loathed the Talveron, he had to admit, the man had taste in clothing.

After a few minutes of aimless roaming, Varlen changed up his approach, honing on on food trays and servants offering drinks on platters. He would go up to them, feign interest in what was on offer, then pretend to be distracted by something off in the distance. Yes, perhaps it made him look like he’d taken a few whacks to the head during the battle with Corypheus, but frankly, he didn’t particularly care. Riven was the one stuck making a good impression, after all. He just had to try not to leave a _bad_ one.

About half an hour passed. Riven had been dragged into a group conversation, mercifully led by Dorian this time. Occasionally swells of polite laughter rose from them at almost strategic intervals, and not for the first time, Varlen thanked the Creators that he was not the one with the anchor on his hand. Shuddering at the thought, he was about to head to a nearby room when something flickered in the corner of his eye.

A flash of something bright moving towards the serving door.

Heart lurching, Varlen whirled, trying to hone in on the pale-haired figure before they vanished, only barely stopping himself from calling out to get their attention. Unfortunately, another servant was passing nearby at that precise moment, and the next thing Varlen knew a golden platter was clattering to the floor, delicate pastries spilling across the polished marble. The dissonant sound was like a thunderclap amid the gentle string music, and for a moment, the entire world seemed to screech to a halt, conversations dying, heads turning, servants freezing in place like a crowd before a hanging.

And all Varlen could do was stand there, heart pounding, heat rising steadily to his cheeks.

“Apologies, my lord.” The servant was on his knees. Not collecting the fallen food. Not picking up the tray. Just on his knees, head bowed, palms pressed flat to the cold stone floor. “Please, forgive my inattention.”

It felt like the entire world was watching them. “I… what? Hey, no, it’s alright. It wasn’t your…” Varlen froze, the words catching in his throat as he tore his gaze away from the mess he had caused to address the servant properly. There, kneeling before him, face hidden as he bowed his head, was an elven man.

An elven man with long blond hair.

_Oh Creators..._

Mercifully, in the thick of Varlen’s stupefied silence, Dorian seemed to materialise, stepping over to stand at his side. “Ah, an unfortunate loss, but nothing that cannot be replaced.” He glanced to Varlen, his tone outwardly light, but edged with insistence that only those who knew him well would place. “I am sure all is forgiven, yes?”

It took Varlen a moment to realise Dorian was waiting for _him_. “O-Oh! I, ah... yes. Yes, of course. No harm done.”

In front of him, the kneeling servant seemed to relax slightly, the tension leaving his shoulders. Slowly, carefully, he began picking up the various pieces of food, placing them back on the tray with increasing swiftness as the attention of the room diverted back to its natural course. Releasing a shaky breath, Varlen was about to kneel when he felt Dorian’s hand close around his arm. “It is an insult for a guest to perform the duties of a servant.” His grip loosened as Varlen gave a numb nod, those quartz-grey eyes going soft for a moment. “The less you interfere in the matter, the better. You must trust me on that.”

“I do,” Varlen said, but the words were distracted, his eyes still fixed on the kneeling servant as he finished collecting the last of the food from the floor. “Dori--- ah, _Magister Pavus_ … the servants and slaves here...?”

Dorian stiffened slightly at the question, reading Varlen’s nauseous expression, sensing the implication in his words. When he answered, it was in a low voice, barely audible above the hum of music and conversation. “For this event, they are dressed the same, amatus. It is an… unusual practise, but not unheard of in provincial cities.” He hesitated, then gave Varlen’s arm a gentle squeeze. “You must take care.”

Nodding, all Varlen could do was numbly let Dorian guide him away from the scene he had caused, the servant slowly rising to his feet, tray in hand. But when the man looked up, they locked eyes for the barest moment - a thing forbidden between servants and guests. A thing even more forbidden to slaves.

It seemed impossible, but in that split second before the man dropped his gaze and turned away, Varlen knew. Despite the fancy clothing, despite the few words spoken, despite the strange lack of vallaslin, he _knew_.

That was Athran.


	5. Eleven Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final preparations take place and the infiltration begins. But first, Hanin has some things to get off his chest...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for mature themes regarding the treatment of slaves in the Imperium (mainly physical and sexual abuse). The acts themselves are not described in any detail, but are alluded to briefly.

Hanin shifted uncomfortably, tugging down the sleeve of the black and gold uniform until it sat flat on his wrist, wishing pointlessly that there was more than just a thin layer of well-made fabric between himself and a potential blade. Grunting, he gave up trying to manipulate the uncomfortable outfit, and Cassius nodded his approval, arms folded across his chest. The man seemed far more at home in Hanin’s clothes, now that they had completed the awkward exchange. Apparently, smuggling additional sets of household uniforms might have drawn needless suspicion.

Hanin suspected Launcet just thought it would be amusing to make them swap outfits.

“Well, that was _fun_.” Lyrene, now clad in a matching servant uniform, sighed and twisted, glancing behind her. “Does this make by butt look as good as I think it does?”

Hanin chose not to dignify that with a response. But Daimon, who was currently sliding into Ralon’s shirt across the room, grinned and gave her an encouraging thumbs up.

“Probably the point, really,” Launcet remarked with a shrug. “Not to dampen your spirits or anything, but there’s more to it than just serving food. Talveron isn’t the worst _dominus_ out there, but he’s far from a saint.”

The flippancy with which Launcet said those words sent a chill up Hanin’s spine. He turned to the man, gaze dark with warning. “What, exactly, are you saying?”

For the first time since they met, Launcet’s easy confidence seemed to waver. “I, ah… well, this _is_ the Imperium. Slaves often serve… multiple purposes.” He moved, crossing the room to check the map, placing the table strategically between himself and Hanin before continuing. “I am simply saying that there are motives for almost everything. A flattering uniform is no accident, I’m afraid.”

Still scowling, Hanin glanced over at Lyrene, who took a moment to process the new information and sighed. “Well, thanks for ruining _that_ for me.” Shaking her head, she moved over to the table, Hanin falling into step, the rest of the Dawn Squad joining them. Cyrus, Ralon, Darren and Connors now wore the uniforms of guards, although for that night, it was unlikely they would be needed. It was simply a precaution, in case Hanin and Lyrene needed an out. As Launcet had said, it was better to be overprepared than underprepared.

For once, Hanin agreed with the man.

“Alright. Their little party should be winding down soon. Once it’s over, we’ll give it a quarter-hour, then send you two to the kitchen entrance.” Launcet, again, indicated the back area of the manor. Thankfully, it was not too far from their current building. If they were careful, they shouldn’t be spotted coming and going. “Everyone in the kitchens will be busy cleaning up and preparing for the morning banquet. It will be a special kind of chaos, so you shouldn’t have any problem slipping in.”

“Yeah, great, but what if they do?” Cyrus demanded, his brow knitted so tight it might be permanently stuck in a frown. “You got a plan for that?”

Launcet drew in a slow, patient breath. “ _Yes_ , I do, but thank you for your confidence. That, my prickly friend, is where _you_ come in. Just in case there’s a problem, you’ll walk with them and be ready to give the excuse that they were tossing scraps to the chickens.” He levelled a pointed stare in Cyrus’ direction. “Happy?”

The Orlesian’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing, biting back a series of undoubtedly _colourful_ suggestions about where Launcet could shove his happiness. Thankfully, the tone of the conversation changed as Launcet pulled a pouch from his belt and set it down on the table, opening it to reveal two silver discs, about an inch in height. After brief inspection, he tossed one to Lyrene and the other to Hanin. “Step two is covering up those markings of yours. Get it done. There isn’t much time.”

Lyrene groaned and wandered over to a window, plopping herself down in front of it and squinting into the glass. However, barely a moment passed before Darren sat down beside her and held out his hand, smiling as she tilted her head back and let him get to work on the markings that framed her face.

As for Hanin, he stood dumbly for a moment with the tin in hand until he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, Captain, why don’t you give me that? Seems our genius planner didn't think to pack a mirror.”

Launcet rolled his eyes at Ralon. “You try stuffing a mirror into your pants, _Prince Charming_. There was only so much I could smuggle.”

Settling into a chair and motioning for Hanin to sit across from him, Ralon just snorted. “Reckon I could do it just fine.” He flashed a grin at Hanin, popping the lid off the tin to reveal a thick looking tinted paste. Curious, he sniffed it, then crinkled his nose. “Phew. Alright, then. Wish me luck! I’ll try not to make it look like you have some kind of skin disease.”

Hanin raised a brow at him, but Ralon just tutted playfully. “Nuh-uh, none of those looks tonight, Captain. You’ve gotta hold still.”

Deftly, the Antivan got to work, running his fingertip carefully along the lines of Hanin’s vallaslin, following the intricate curves that marked his dedication to Mythal. As he worked, the rest of the room dispersed, settling to speak in soft tones or otherwise preoccupy themselves. It left the two of them with a sense of privacy for which Hanin was grateful. It was odd, letting someone cover his vallaslin. A part of him felt silly for it, but it just seemed… _wrong_.

“These are important, right?” Ralon asked, dipping his fingertip into the pan and tilting Hanin’s head slightly up. “Like, a cultural thing?”

“Yes.” Hanin tried his best not to move as Ralon worked on the lines curving beneath his eye. “We receive them when we become an adult in the clan. There is ceremony behind it. Tradition.”

“Huh.” Ralon paused to inspect his work, then used this thumb to clean up some of the edges. “I don’t suppose you cover it for anything, normally?”

Hanin almost shook his head, but stopped himself just in time. “No. The vallaslin is something to be worn proudly.” He paused, then added, “It is a part of who I am. To hide it would be to hide my own face.”

The Antivan’s brown eyes shifted slightly, meeting Hanin’s for a moment before returning to their task. “Shit. This guy must mean a lot to you, huh?” When Hanin didn’t respond for a moment, Ralon gave a sheepish laugh. “I mean, not that the rest of this is child’s play or anything, but… I don’t know. This part just seems worse, somehow.”

Dipping a fingertip back into the pan, Hanin moved his head accordingly to Ralon’s silent guidance. So far, his squad had been kind to him. They had not pushed for answers, or even for more than what was already detailed in the plan. Despite the lengths they were going to, none of them had demanded anything personal from him to justify the risk. Without hesitation, they had just accepted it as something that needed to be done. They had just _trusted_ that it was important enough to be worth it.

Sitting there, with Ralon carefully concealing his vallaslin, Hanin realised with a pang of regret that they all deserved so much better from him.

Perhaps it was his turn to trust.

“We were… together, for a time. Athran and I. When we were younger.” He closed his eyes as Ralon began working near them, the scent of the tinted mixture something akin to wet clay and stone. “Over eleven years ago.”

He felt Ralon’s hands pause, just for a moment. Then, as gently and calmly as before, they kept going, carefully brushing across Hanin’s skin. “Well... that explains a lot. I mean, some of us had a feeling, but it didn’t seem like a good time to go prying into your personal life.”

The corner of Hanin’s mouth twitched up slightly at that. “Impressive restraint.”

Ralon’s chuckle was quiet and fond as he patted over a couple more spots on Hanin’s forehead. “Yeah, well... we learned from the king of bottling things up. What did you expect?”

As usual, he showed a remarkable talent for delivering a compliment and an insult simultaneously, but Hanin was not one to hold such a skill against him. But before Hanin had to think of something to say, Ralon continued softly. "But seriously... thanks. For telling me. Or _us_ , because you know I'm going to tell the others the second you leave." Hanin just huffed softly at that.  _He knew_. Ralon smirked slightly and continued. "I know you don't like talking about the clan, after everything that happened, and shit, that's fair. It can't have been easy to ask us for help in the first place, but it means a lot. Even more, now that we know what you're going through a bit better."

Guilt twisted like a knife in Hanin's stomach. "I shouldn't have kept it from all of you. I'm sorry."

"Hey, your business is your business. We were going to give it everything we had anyway. Fact of the matter is you didn't have to, but you did. It's just... nice." A soft smile replaced the smirk on Ralon's lips. "We trust you too, Captain."

Hanin didn't know what to say to that, and in truth, there was really nothing more to add. Instead, he just remained still until Ralon finished his task, an instruction that he open his eyes and face the lantern marking the end of the arduous process. “Hm... doesn’t look like I missed anything,” Ralon murmured, inspecting Hanin’s face like a painter before a canvas. He raised his voice. “What do you guys think? Look alright?”

The next thing Hanin knew, he had twelve sets of eyes trained intensely on his face. He swore he’d had nightmares that were similar.

“Looks good to me,” said Cyrus. “I mean, weird as fuck, but you can’t see any of it.”

“Don’t touch your face,” Connors instructed sternly. “It will rub off if you’re not careful.”

Glancing across to catch Lyrene’s eye, she and Hanin nodded. It _was_ strange, seeing the woman without the mark of June. In that moment, Hanin was almost grateful no one had brought a mirror. He had not seen his bare face since he was fifteen years old, and he had no desire to.

“Alright, if we’re done playing salon, it’s time to get moving.” Launcet was at the open door, peering through the crack. “Looks like the kitchens are coming to life. Means the fun’s over and it’s time to get to work.” Glancing over his shoulder at the group, he tossed them a wink. “Same goes for you lot.”

Breathing out a long, steady breath, Hanin stood, Lyrene and Cyrus moving to his side. He was about to leave when Ralon cleared his throat, catching his attention.

“Hey, be careful, alright? Both of you.” Ralon’s gaze passed over Cyrus to focus on Lyrene, and ended on Hanin. “We’ll get him back. Just play it _safe_.”

With that, the trio exited the building, Launcet joining them for a time before breaking away to head to the guard’s barracks and find a copy of the roster. Heart thrumming, Hanin and Lyrene made their way across to the manor, the once inviting cobbled path now feeling ominous and exposed; a dead giveaway. But Cyrus strode beside them, the uniform well-tailored and neat, a blade belted securely to his side, a scowl dark on his face. Hanin had a feeling his presence alone would be enough to see them wherever they needed to go.

They arrived at the kitchen entrance just as an older servant was pushing her way out with her hip, a heavy sack burdening her arms. Without thinking, Hanin reached out, quickly catching the door and holding it open. Flustered and red-cheeked, the woman glanced up, brown eyes confused for a moment as they came to rest on his face. A tense moment passed. Out of the corner of his eye, Hanin could see Cyrus shifting slightly, about to intervene.

“Ah, you must be one of the new ones!” The woman grinned, wrinkles drawing aside like curtains to frame her face. “So _polite_. Strong, too. Maker, it's about time we got someone with a little meat on his bones.” She shuffled past, taking care to navigate the single step that led down to the cobbled path. “You just head on inside. Plenty of work for a big pair of hands.” She glanced up, catching sight of Lyrene. “Ah, good, two of you! Go on inside, too. As for you...” She winced and shifted, holding out the heavy sack to Cyrus. “Be a dear and help an old serving woman. That’s it.”

Uncertain of how to back out of the rapidly unfolding situation, Cyrus just grunted in surprise as the old woman dumped the sack into his arms. He glanced across at Lyrene, who shrugged helplessly, and gave a terse sigh. “ _Fine_. Where are we taking this thing?”

“Out to the chickens, dear. My turn to feed the poor things tonight. Come along.”

Lyrene’s eyes widened like saucepans. She turned to Hanin as Cyrus and the old woman shuffled out of hearing distance, the lady practically gluing herself to Cyrus’ side, chattering away as they walked. “Shit… good thing he kept quiet, huh?”

Nodding, Hanin opened the door wider. “It was. Come on.” Hurrying forward, Lyrene darted into the kitchens, Hanin following close behind. Almost immediately, Hanin was nearly crashed into by a harried looking servant, his hands full of vegetable scraps, a demand for them to be brought to a bin halfway past his lips until he took in the height and bulk of Hanin’s form. There was the briefest moment of calculation, during which he clearly thought better of the request and moved on. The entire interaction was over before Hanin even had a chance to mutter an apology.

It was difficult, getting through the warzone that was the kitchen. Hanin swore he had been on battlefields that possessed more order; more _structure_. Cooks and assistants shouted back and forth over the clamor of pots and utensils, boiling water throwing steam into the air, the floor gritty with salt and flour as Hanin tried his best to navigate the chaos without drawing too much attention to himself. That proved to be a nearly impossible task, and as he moved he found himself mechanically grabbing pots and bottles from high shelves on command, passing them down to impatiently waiting servants who would have made admirable drill sergeants in another life. Lyrene, however, managed to slip by relatively unscathed, the woman soon finding her way to a doorway at the far side of the room. She lingered there awkwardly until Hanin was spat out by the crowd a few feet away, his dark uniform askew and dusted with flour, a bottle of salt, for some reason, clutched tightly in his hand. Before he even turned to look at it, it was snatched away by a passing cook.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” Lyrene grinned as Hanin fired her a deadly look. “C’mon, cranky. This way.” She opened the door and slipped through. Hanin followed, tugging his uniform straight, determined to escape the broiling havoc of the kitchens. Soon, he found himself swiftly submerged in near total silence. The bright lights of ovens and lanterns disappeared behind the closing door, leaving Hanin and Lyrene in a grey-stone corridor, only the muted hum of arguments and barked instructions making it through the thick wooden barrier. “Creepy,” Lyrene whispered, then slowly set off, her footsteps softly echoing as she moved. “Kind of like dipping your head underwater, huh?”

According to the floor plan, the cellar entrance was halfway down the hall. Sure enough, Lyrene halted before a second door, less sturdy than the one they had just fled through. Its hinges creaked in bitter protest as she pushed it open to reveal a smaller room with a large trapdoor built into the floor. The entrance to the cellar.

And a guard, sitting a few feet behind it.

Lyrene froze as the guard looked up from his book and grunted, his face pulling into a scowl beneath his thick, unkempt moustache. “What’s this, then? You lot done with duties?”

Some part of Hanin immediately screamed _kill him_. Luckily, and possibly for that precise reason, he had not been sent alone.

Dropping into a curtsy, Lyrene bowed her head. “Yes, Ser. Apologies for interrupting.”

He grunted again, shifting, the chair squeaking beneath his bulk. “What about the kitchens, eh? Got a lot of busy-work in there.”

“Of course, Ser.” Lyrene did not hesitate. “We offered our services, but they preferred us away from the food.”

There was a long, heavy pause as the guard seemed to chew over her answer. Then his eyes slid across to Hanin, standing directly behind Lyrene, his uniform a dishevelled mess. That fact likely helped prove Lyrene's point, and slowly the guard nodded. Leaning to his right, he grabbed a key from a hook on the wall beside the chair. “Right. Fair enough.” His heavy boots scraped across the stone floor as he stood and crouched down by the cellar entrance. He slipped it into the thick padlock, turning it until the metal snapped open, freeing the doors. “Go on, then. Off with you.” Glancing up, his gaze lingered for a moment on Lyrene. “Unless you want to spend a little time with _me_ , that is...”

Immediately, Hanin moved past Lyrene and stooped, throwing open one side of the trapdoor, revealing a flight of steep, unlit stairs. “We are under orders,” he stated flatly, nodding for Lyrene to move past him as he stood between her and the guard. “No fraternising.”

As Lyrene scampered past, the guard glowered up at Hanin. “That so? Wasn’t made aware of any orders like that, _slave_.”

Sensing he was racing towards dangerous waters, Hanin tensed his jaw and took a gamble. “It is a household rule, for when there are important guests.” Thinking back to what Launcet had said earlier, Hanin grit his teeth. “We are to remain... available.”

Understanding seemed to flash in the guard’s eyes, and he huffed, waving a dismissive hand towards the cellar steps. “Fuckin' _perfect_. Take a job like this, and for what? No perks at all.” Grumbling, he returned to his seat. “Last time I volunteer for any of this shit…”

Leaving the man to his bitter reading, Hanin took his leave, moving down the steps, trying his best to hide the visceral relief that his gamble had paid off. From what he’d seen of Talveron’s personal guards, they all took their duties very seriously, particularly with such important visitors at the estate. A rough looking man reading a book in a sideroom? Just because he was dressed like one of them didn’t mean he was cut from the same cloth. More than likely he was a mercenary, or a guard from a lesser noble, who had been sent to bolster Talveron’s forces for the duration of the event.

The cellar door slammed shut after a few moments, and Hanin heard the sound of a lock snapping in place.

_Well… that was something new to account for._

Letting that issue drift to the back of his mind for the time being, Hanin reached the bottom of the stairs where Lyrene was waiting, shifting back and forth from foot to foot, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Oh thank the Creators,” she breathed when Hanin appeared. “What were you thinking? Don’t you remember what Launcet said? What _Ralon_ said? We need to play it safe!”

“Are you safe?”

Lyrene hesitated, mouth still open mid-reprimand. “I… yeah. I suppose.”

“Then we played it well.” He paused, then reached out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You are already doing more than you should, Lyrene. Just because we are not in uniform does not make you any less of my responsibility.”

Slowly, seeming almost reluctant, Lyrene nodded. “Yeah. I’m getting that, alright? Just… don’t go throwing punches or anything. I’m drawing a _line_ there.”

A faint smile played across Hanin’s face as he released her shoulder. “Understood.”

The cellar was about what Hanin had expected, although admittedly not quite as terrible. Stone made up the walls, floor, and ceiling, the surprisingly large space interspersed by wooden support beams to maintain the integrity of the structure. On the right side of the room, cots were crammed in tight rows, only about three feet of space between each bed. None possessed more than a blanket over a thin mattress, and while a healthy number were occupied, a significant amount remained empty. A wooden barrier split the room down the center, the other side of which Hanin glimpsed a makeshift living area with chairs, tables, and benches that, while plain, could at least be considered usable.  

“It’s like a prison,” Hanin murmured. The word left a bad taste in his mouth, but there was no other way he could think to describe it. “It functions, but…”

“What gave it away? Was it the guard? The locked door? The miserable grey walls?” Lyrene’s face had twisted into a scowl. She clearly enjoyed being there as much as Hanin did. “Come on. Let’s look around. If your clanmate is anywhere, it’d be down here.”

Nodding grimly, Hanin and Lyrene split off to cover more ground. There were no guards in the cellar, so Hanin felt less worried about letting his subordinate out of his sight, especially considering majority of Talveron’s slaves appeared too exhausted to even raise their heads, let alone pick a fight. Moving about the space, Hanin was grateful for the dim light. It meant that, even though there were no more than fifty beds in the cellar, no one really took the time to scrutinise him as he passed. In fact, majority seemed more interested in picking their way through meagre meals, or engaging in soft conversations with their neighbours. At a glance, most were humans of varying ages, majority of whom appeared to be native to Tevinter. Briefly, he recalled Varlen mentioning the Imperium practice of selling oneself into slavery. Hanin could only imagine how dire their situation must have been, for anyone to even consider trading away their freedom.

With Lyrene prowling the rows of cots, Hanin found himself moving towards the left side of the room, a break in the wooden partition allowing passage at its centre. However, as he approached, the sound of a sharp conversation stopped in him place.

“...t were you _thinking_? Have you finally gone mad?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“Then what the _fuck_ were you doing there? That wasn’t even your area.”

“I just wanted to see them, Tellene.”

“Did you get a good look? Well, did you? Was it worth all… all of _this_?”

“I don’t know. Maybe? I had to try _something_. Is that so wrong?”

“What’s wrong is you pulling a stupid stunt like that, and then what? You come crawling over to me to coddle you like a damn child, that’s what. Every bloody time.”

“I’m sorry. You can go sleep. I don’t need your help.”

“... Oh _Maker’s breath_. Piss off with that and hold still.” A pause followed. “I swear, you’ll send me to my grave good and early. Just what exactly did you think would happen? That they’d whisk you away on the spot?”

“I--”

\-- “That they’d drop everything and buy you from the _dominus_?”

“No, I just--”

\-- “Then _what_?” The woman’s frustration had clearly reached its peak, her tone as sharp as a freshly honed blade as it cut the man off. “I don’t know what you’ve been thinking lately, but you’re living in a _fantasy_. I’ll tell you what will happen. They’ll come here, have their little meeting, and then they’ll _leave_. Just like all the rest. And guess who’s going to be left picking up the pieces again?”

Hanin could feel that thrum pulsing in the back of his mind, his heart hammering against his ribs as the conversation gave way to a tense, heavy silence.

“... I said I was sorry.”

The woman released a long, exasperated sigh. “I told you, Athran. I _told_ you not to go getting your hopes up. Now… Maker, look at you.”

 _Athran_.

Even before hearing the name, Hanin had known. Deep down, he had _known._ That voice, the way he spoke, the cadence of each sentence, was like a piece of shattered memory pressed into his palm, cutting deep, drawing blood. And all he wanted to do was close his hand around it. Hold it close.

Breathless, unthinking, _uncaring_ , Hanin stepped around the barrier into the room.

Mismatched furniture littered the area, some grouped, others standing alone by the cold stone walls. It was mostly empty save for two figures sitting at one of the tables in the back corner, although Hanin could only see the face of one. The woman was an old elf, likely in her sixth or seventh decade, her shrewd green eyes narrowed into disapproving slits as she peered at the face of the man sitting across from her. An elven man with long blond hair.

Hanin's stomach dropped to its knees.

“It’s nothing a little makeup can’t cover, Tel.” That _voice_. Hanin took a step slow step forward, mind reeling, his throat so tight it felt like he was being choked by an unseen hand.

Tellene rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Well, doesn’t that just make it all better. You really--” She cut off suddenly, her gaze snapping across, honing in on Hanin like a hawk on a rat. “Are you _lost_ or something?”

There was venom to the words, but also a kind of instinctive protectiveness. Like a single puzzle piece slotting into place, it set some small part of Hanin at ease to know she was there, fussing over Athran. “No. I’m not.”

Her expression darkened, jaw tensing as she lowered her hands, a cloth clutched in one, a small tub of salve in the other. “Then _get_ lost. If you’re new, go find someone else to hold your hand. Mine are full.”

 _“Tellene_. Don’t be cruel.” Athran rested a staying hand on the woman’s wrist, everything about him strangely slow. Strangely calm. Or perhaps _defeated_ was the better word for the way in which he moved, like the air was thick and his heart just wasn’t quite in it. Even as he turned, it was not without difficulty, a pained tremor wracking his frame as he twisted in the seat. “I’m sorry about her. She’s just…”

Athran’s gaze came to rest on Hanin, and the rest of the world seemed to crumble to ash at his feet. Flooding in to fill the space came a deep and impenetrable nothingness so fathomless and dark Hanin feared for a moment that he might drown in it.

A beat passed.

Another.

Then, slowly, those brown eyes widened.

Athran’s expression shifted, his familiar face falling slack. The chair grated across the floor as he rose unsteadily to his feet, the sound impossibly loud, impossibly _slow_ , as though it had been dragged out for minutes instead of seconds. That thrum in the back of Hanin’s mind slowed as well, quieting until it was nothing more than a dull, rhythmic thump, the sensation pulsing through his body until it lost its shape, melting into another rhythm. Another sensation.

The beating of his heart.

“I’m here.”

The words sounded so laughably inadequate, even as Hanin said them. Athran just stood there, his breathing short and stiff, the space between them seeming too far, _too distant,_  even though it wasn’t. Even though they finally,  _finally_ , shared the same room.

“You’re late.” There was something odd about Athran’s voice, like in the process of speaking it had been drawn too tight. Pulled too thin. Stiffly, Hanin swallowed.

“I know.”

Athran exhaled in a sudden, shivering rush. The breaths started coming deeper, his lower lip beginning to tremble even as he fought against it, hands curling into fists at his side.

“It’s been _eleven years_.”

That impossible pressure rose back up, coiling at the back of Hanin’s throat, threatening to choke him.

_“I know.”_

He didn’t have the words. Even after two weeks of planning, of agonising, of sleepless nights building up to that precise moment, Hanin had never found them. He’d played it out over and over in his head, but none of them were right. None of them were _enough_. None of them could ever give shape to all the things that needed to be said.

So, he said the truth.

“ _Ir abelas_.” Shaking his head, wishing he was better - wishing he was _more_ \- Hanin took a single step forward. “Lethallin, I..”

Hanin never had a chance to finish his sentence. He never even had a chance to finish the thought behind it because the second the first word left his lips Athran was moving. In the space of a few frantic heartbeats he crossed the distance and was in Hanin’s arms, head buried against his chest, his grip so tight it was like he was terrified Hanin would vanish from between his fingers. For once, it was nothing for Hanin to hug the man back. He held Athran so firmly that when the man's legs almost gave way beneath him he didn’t fall. Instead, Athran was caught and held by Hanin as they both stood in shock, in disbelief, in _relief_  of eleven years of distance closed in the span of seconds. With Athran finally safe in his embrace, the pair locked together so tightly, Hanin dared the Creators, the Maker, _anyone_ to try to tear them apart again.

Let them try.

Let anyone try.


	6. One Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Athran in his arms and the entire situation suddenly feeling impossibly real, Hanin discovers there is still a lot left to address, and even more to mend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: non-graphic mentions of abuse (physical and implied sexual).

The slave’s quarters remained relatively quiet as Hanin and Athran held each other, neither seeming quite willing to break the embrace, neither wanting to bring to an end something so long in the making. But, eventually, Athran’s shaking became more noticeable, so Hanin helped guide the hunter towards one of the nearby benches, setting him down, dropping into a crouch before him. Silent tears stained his flushed cheeks, and Athran swept them away hurriedly, the corner of his sleeve coming away smeared with a pale colour that left Hanin baffled for a moment before he realised what it was. Slowly, hesitantly, Hanin reached towards Athran. When the man didn’t pull away, he brushed his thumb down the side of his cheek, that strange paint coming away, revealing the faint line of his vallaslin beneath. It was also during that process that Hanin took the chance to properly inspect his clanmate’s face.

 What he saw set his blood boiling in his veins.

 “Who did this to you?”

 Athran gave a wet, disbelieving laugh, pulling away from Hanin’s touch. “ _Really_? After all this time, the first thing you’re going to do is interrogate me?”

It took everything Hanin had not to visibly wince. He needed to slow down. Creators, he  _knew_  that, yet there he was, acting like a complete fool. One step. One step at a time.

“Ir abelas. Are you alright?”

A feeble smile flickered across Athran’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Athran paused, considering the question for a moment before deeming it acceptable. “I took a necessary risk. At the party. I thought I had to get close.  _Make_  them notice me. I…” His gaze shifted back, focusing on Hanin’s face. “I didn’t realise you would be with them.”

 _Of course_. Hanin closed his eyes, for whatever reason feeling like he had failed Athran yet again. He knew it wouldn’t have been possible to get word to him. But maybe… if he’d just  _done more_  for the Inquisition… maybe Athran would have heard his name, too. Slowly, Hanin tilted Athran’s face, the blond moving obediently with the motion. He had always bruised quickly, even when he was younger.

“Well. It seems my services are no longer needed.” Tellene’s sharp voice sliced through the silence like a blade through a neck. Hanin glanced across only to find a cloth and salve being thrust at him, the older woman’s expression a strange mixture of terse and mollified. “Go on, then. You’ve gone to all this trouble, you can go to a little more. Let an old lady take a break.”

After a moment of confused silence, Hanin released Athran and took the offerings from her hands. Then he paused for a moment, glancing up to meet her gaze. “Thank you, hahren. For everything you’ve done.”

Tellene snorted and rolled her eyes. “Keep that  _hahren_  nonsense to yourself. If I didn’t sort him out I’d just have to listen to him complain all night.” Slowly, she shuffled over to a nearby chair, settling down heavily, releasing an audible sigh of relief with the motion. “Go on. Get to it. Those injuries won’t tend themselves.” 

It seemed she was not willing to leave them completely alone together yet. That was alright. By the sounds of things, she was someone Athran trusted. Hanin was willing to accept that. Trust would not have been an easy thing to come by.

Slowly, Hanin turned back to Athran, hands full and tentative. Normally, like with any of his squad, he would just begin, but this time he forced himself to wait. Slow down.  _One step._  

“May I?”

Athran eyed the cloth uncertainly for a few seconds, but eventually nodded. Reaching up, he shakily drew back his hair, sweeping it away from his face, the movement slow and unsure. Up close and in better lighting, Hanin could see the dark bruise forming around his left eye, spreading to the top of his cheekbone. The second bruise blossoming at the base of his neck. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to say anything, so he busied himself, gently blotting the damp cloth over the area near his eye, wiping away more of that tinted substance as he went.

“Are you the only one?” Athran’s voice was soft, as though speaking too loud might wake him from a dream.

Hanin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Here. From the clan. Other than Riven and Varl-- _ah!_ ”

Hanin cursed and drew back sharply as Athran gasped and flinched away. “Sorry. I’m not… good at this.”

A scoffing sound from Tellene confirmed Hanin’s insecurity. Athran, however, just wet his lips and returned to his original position as though nothing had happened. As though he hadn’t just been hurt.

As though he didn’t really have a choice.

“It’s alright.” Shifting slightly, wincing with the movement, Athran studied Hanin, his expression unreadable. “I’m not very good at… any of this either.” Then, with a kind of cold, breathless laugh, he dropped his gaze. “I had a big speech prepared, you know. For this.” His hands curled into fists on his lap. “It was angry and- and  _self-righteous_ \- but then  _you_ showed up, and I...” He took a steadying breath as Hanin began gently cleaning his cheek again. “I guess I just didn’t  _really_  expect to see anyone from home again.”

 _Home_. The clan.

_Creators._

Hanin knew it was possible that Athran wouldn’t know what had happened. That he might truly have no idea there was no home to go back to. That of the people he loved, and the people who loved him in return, only three remained, two of which were too young to even remember his face. Hanin had imagined what telling him would be like, on the road to Perivantium. Imagined just giving him the truth the second they met; tearing off the bandage. But in the end, he had put it aside, and choose instead to rely on his judgement call when Athran was in front of him. After all, Hanin had no way of knowing what state his clanmate would be in. What he might have endured after eleven years in captivity. To heap yet another burden on top of his shoulders…?

No. Hanin wasn’t willing to do that.

Not yet.

Gently, Hanin reached out, crooking his finger beneath Athran’s chin, guiding the man to look up at him. They stayed like that for a moment, so close. Touching and silent, connected yet impossibly distant. For a second, Hanin was sent crashing back to the day they met, Athran sagging against his side, his legs stumbling then dragging until Hanin finally gave up sparing his dignity and swept him into his arms. On that journey through the forest, blood trickling from the corner of Athran’s mouth, there had been no one else. No one else had  _mattered_. Now, again, in a room full of people, in a place so far from home it seemed a different world, Hanin felt it. He felt that same sensation as Athran’s eyes rose to meet his. Tentative. Slow.

 _Creators_ , he had missed him.

“Do you boys need some time alone, or are you going to start talking about a plan?”

Both Hanin and Athran startled slightly as Tellene started to cough, the sound dry and impotent, like clearing a layer of dust from her throat. Apologetic, Hanin made to draw away, but Athran’s hand shot up, catching him by the wrist, holding him, his gaze bright with a sharp and sudden panic. Hanin froze, not sure what was happening, but as quickly as the emotion arrived, it faded. Athran’s grip loosened, his hand dropping back to his lap. “Sorry,” he murmured, then cleared his throat before Hanin had a chance to reply. “I assume there’s…  _something_. Some kind of plan. Isn’t there?”

Stiffly, Hanin nodded. “There is. But it will require you to be ready, when the time comes.” Uncertainly, he looked over to Tellene. “And... we only accounted for one.”

Tellene’s brows shot up at that. Hanin felt Athran stiffen beside him. There was a beat of silence. Two.

Then, to Hanin’s surprise, the old woman  _laughed_.

“What’s this? You think  _I_  want to run away with you? In the middle of the night?” She continued to chuckle, rocking back in her chair. Her gaze lingered on Hanin for a moment; drifted appreciatively up and down his form. “Hm. Twenty years ago, I might have taken you up on that offer. But not now.”

Athran leaned forward suddenly, drawing Hanin’s attention. The hunter was clearly distressed, his voice imploring as he spoke. “But  _Tel_ \--”

\-- “I am  _old_ , Athran. Older than I have any right to be.” She shook her head as she shifted, face contorting with the motion. Hanin could practically  _feel_ her bones creak. “Maker knows, I can do more good here than I can anywhere else, with the time I have left.”

Hanin could hear Athran’s breaths shortening; almost  _feel_  his pulse beginning to race. “B-But you said…”

Tellene’s gaze softened slightly. Even so, it remained sharp enough to cut. “I know what I said. But after all these years, Athran, I could see it. You, of all the hopeful fools among us, had finally lost hope. Then, of all things, a Herald emerged from the darkness, bearing your name. For the first time, the possibility of  _true freedom_  was right there in front of you. So...” Her lips curved, twisting into a humourless smile. “I  _lied_.”

Athran stared at her, face slack with shock until the expression shattered like glass. He curled in on himself, something so pained about the motion that Hanin almost considered breaking his personal rule to never strike the elderly. Instead, he kept one hand on Athran’s shoulder and turned sharply to Tellene.

“What are you saying?” He gritted out. “What did you  _do_?”

Utterly unfazed, Tellene raised her chin. There was something so endlessly stubborn about the motion, as though Hanin’s anger was as threatening as a pup with a limp. She was a woman who had seen it all, and  _lived_. “Well, if you really must know, I told Athran I would go with him. That if he did not at least  _try_  to send a letter to your Inquisitor, he would be squandering my freedom along with his own.” One of her grey brows arched, then, curving like a question. “Now, I didn’t expect him to go looking for trouble after you arrived, but that is a matter for another discussion. One between the two of you, preferably, somewhere  _far_ from here.”

Hanin’s own heart was thumping now, beating in sympathy for Athran. Beating in gratitude for the old woman perched on her wooden chair, her face regal and stern beneath lines of servitude. She might not openly admit it, but if what she said was true,  _she_  had saved his clanmate. Hanin was only there, dressed in the garb of a slave, because she had tricked Athran into trying to save himself.

The silence must have dragged on for longer than Hanin realised, because Tellene raised one wispy eyebrow. “Well?  _Satisfied?_ ”

“Yes. I am.” Slowly, Hanin lowered his gaze and bowed his head. It was something they did for the hahren, back with the clan. A sign of great respect; of great gratitude. He could practically feel Athran’s surprised stare burning a hole in his back, but she had earned no less, and infinitely more. “Thank you, Tellene.”

The woman’s chuckle was soft this time. Pleased. “Ah… If only my younger self could see me now. Two strapping elven men making such a fuss over me.” She heaved a sigh, reaching down, rubbing absently at one knobbly knee. “But the fact remains: I will not go with you. I am needed here.”

Athran stiffened suddenly, incredulous. “What? The  _dominus_  doesn’t deserve anything from you, Tel! Not from any of us. He treats us like animals. Sometimes  _worse_.” His voice had risen until it was almost a shout, and Hanin’s gaze flicked warily towards the sleeping area. Athran was trembling again, his knuckled white as he gripped his own knee. Then, like the wind leaving a ship’s sails, it was suddenly... gone. The anger. The outrage. The grief. It flooded away, leaving him empty. Slowly, he bowed his head. “He doesn’t  _deserve_  you.”

Tellene simply waited, as though making certain he was finished before speaking.

“No, he doesn’t. But  _you_  did.”

Grunting softly, Tellene struggled to her feet, using the nearby table for support as she rose. For a moment, she just stood there, regarding Hanin, taking his measure, a kind of steely resolve in those narrowed eyes. Then her attention shifted to Athran, and some of her hard lines softened. “Athran. Listen to me, child.” He looked up brokenly, meeting her gaze. “You are not the only one who needs me.” She gestured pointedly towards the sleeping area. To the rows of cots. To the other slaves, young and old, huddled under too-thin blankets. “I would no sooner abandon them than I would my own children. You knew that when you sent that letter. Do not pretend differently now.”

Athran did not reply. Somehow, Hanin had a feeling there was simply nothing left to say. After sucking in a steadying breath, Tellene began shuffling towards the sleeping area. She didn’t look at them again, even as she brushed past Hanin close enough to touch. Hanin’s eyes followed the woman’s hunched, retreating form until a choked sound from Athran pulled him back to the moment. The hunter was curled forward, his hand pressed over his mouth, blond hair falling limply to either side of his face. He shook in short, tight tremors, barely any sound escaping save the passage of air. Alarmed, unsure of what to do, Hanin just turned to face him, reaching out carefully, placing his hands on either side of Athran’s arms, trying to be comforting. Even so, it took a few long moments before Athran was able to speak again. When he did, his voice was hoarse and quiet.

“I want to go home.” He pulled in a tense, shivering breath, swiping roughly at his eyes. “ _Please_. Just… take me home.”

“I will.” Carefully, Hanin drew Athran close once more, cradling the man against his chest. It was gentler this time; the way he remembered holding him those years ago. The way he had held him whenever things became too much. Whenever Athran had needed someone who wouldn’t try to solve his problems with pretty words. “Tomorrow, lethallin. We will leave tomorrow.”

There was a pause; a nothingness that hung between them, shivering and silent. It broke only when Athran suddenly exhaled, the breath rushing out of him, his body seeming to deflate as he drew away. “Tomorrow.” The word dropped like a stone from his lips. Even though Athran wasn’t looking at him directly, Hanin could tell something was wrong. That something had changed. With that single word -  _tomorrow_  - a wall had suddenly gone up.

And Hanin didn’t understand  _why_.

“Athran, what’s wrong?” He reached out, worried, but Athran leaned away from his touch. “Are you…?”

“I’m alright, Hanin. I just… I need to get ready.” Strangely, there didn’t seem to be any anger in his voice, but what Hanin found there was much worse.

_Resignation._

Athran got to his feet and started to walk away. Hanin rose and followed.

“Get ready? For what?”

Athran paused when he reached a wall of shelves at the back of the room, home to some wooden dishes and spoons, a few cups, and stacks of tattered cleaning rags. Reaching up, he moved aside some cups to reveal a metal cylinder, almost identical to the one Hanin and Lyrene had used earlier that night. He brought it down slowly, staring at it, a kind of vacantness to his gaze that left Hanin sick with unease.

“The  _dominus_  doesn’t usually make me do this. Cover it up.” A faint smile flickered at the corner of Athran’s mouth as he turned the metal container in his hands. There was no joy in it. “Most prefer seeing it, actually. They think it’s  _exotic_. But with the Inquisitor being Dalish…”

That sickness dove deeper, coiling in the pit of Hanin’s stomach. “Athran, what are you talking about?” When Athran remained silent and started numbly unscrewing the container, Hanin threw caution to the wind and reached out, resting a hand over his, stilling the movement. “Lethallin,  _please_. Talk to me.”

They stood there for a time, neither man moving, neither finding the will to break the silence that had descended so heavily around them. Hanin watched Athran, gaze thick with concern.

Athran wouldn’t even look at him.

“It’s... a tradition of his, after parties with important guests. The  _dominus_  lets them choose their favourite.” He paused, but the final words managed to push their way out through his tight jaw.  _“To celebrate.”_

Hanin frowned. “Celebrate? How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Leave it, Hanin.”

“Athran--”

\-- “ _Don’t make me say it.”_

Stunned into silence, Hanin didn’t even try to hold on as Athran tugged his hand free, stepping away, breathing hard. Everything about him seemed impossibly tense. “Just…  _stop_. I need to get ready. They’ll be calling us all soon, so...”

Moving over to a table, Athran unscrewed the lid and held it in front of his face. His hand was shaking so badly Hanin doubted he could even make out the shape of his reflection in the dull metal. Sick to his stomach, understanding finally arriving like a slap to the face, Hanin wanted nothing more than to go to him. Comfort him.

But he just... didn’t know  _how_.

Instead, he shook his head and focused on the practical. Things he could use. “Which magister?”

The lid slipped from Athran’s fingers, clattering loudly against the tabletop. It continued to wobble and spin until the blond slapped it to stillness. “ _It_   _doesn’t matter_ ,” he repeated stiffly. “I knew this was coming, Hanin. One of the servants told me to… to  _expect_  it. A couple of the guests had their eye on me tonight. I just… I thought maybe after…”

Athran exhaled, his free hand rising to ghost gingerly over the dark bruise mottling his face. The coolness of the cloth had done little to sooth the swelling. The salve, Hanin realised with a pang of guilt, he had forgotten entirely.

A bitter laugh trembled up Athran’s throat. “It takes more than clumsiness and a black eye to deter them. Apparently.”

Hanin could tell by the way Athran moved, by the dark musings he made, that this was not the first time he had been chosen. Even though Leliana had warned him about how he might have been treated, Hanin had not truly been prepared to see it first-hand.

> _‘Slaves are property in the Imperium, Hanin. They are used accordingly.’_

Those had been the Nightingale’s words. Harsh as they were, Hanin could see now that she spoke the truth. The proof lay in Athran, moving mechanically, covering up bruise and vallaslin alike with shaking fingers. Part of Hanin screamed for him to abandon the plan; to get him out  _tonight._ Right now, if he had to. It would be risky. It would be dangerous beyond imagining. It could ruin everything - compromise  _everyone_. Get him killed.

But could he live with the alternative?

_Unless…_

Taking a deep breath, Hanin took a few steps forward, feet padding softly in the shoes of a slave. “You said two of the magisters were interested. Do you...  _see_  both?”

Athran froze for a moment, Hanin’s heart stuttering to a stop as well. But then he continued, delicately patting the tinted mixture beneath his eye, wincing occasionally when he pressed too hard on the bruised skin. The entire ritual was far too practised for Hanin’s liking.

“No. Just one. They don’t like to  _share._ ” He snorted dryly. “I thought it would be Magister Cavellius, with the way he’d been looking at me and the other elven slaves. But it’s not.” He paused, wetting his lips, actual nervousness seeming to show for the first time since he’d begun getting ready. “ I don’t really know much about him, actually. I’m... not sure what to expect.”

Hanin’s hand had curled into a fist so tight he could feel his nails biting crescents into his palms. “Do you know his name?”

“ _Why?_ ” Athran turned sharply, anger flaring with the motion. “Why does it even  _matter,_ Hanin? There’s nothing you can do. I…” He broke off, throat bobbing as he swallowed tightly. “I haven’t had you here to protect me for  _eleven years_ , Hanin. You said tomorrow. One more night… it won’t make a difference.”

Hearing those words, so simple and matter-of-fact, broke something inside Hanin. He felt his heart drop to the soles of his feet as Athran turned away once more, unable to hold his gaze. In that moment, Hanin knew there was only one thing,  _one thing_ , that could possibly make him willing to stick to the plan. Only one thing that would make him wait one more night.

“Is it Magister Pavus?”

Athran stiffened, then turned back, lips parted, brow creased into an incredulous frown.

“How did you know?”

Relief  _flooded_  through Hanin, the force of it so strong it was difficult to resist the urge to sag to the floor. He breathed out, an exhausted laugh rising from his chest as he ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Thank the _Creators.._.”

Athran, fairly, required more explanation. “I don’t understand… you  _know_  him?”

“Yes. He’s with us. A friend.” Hanin moved to Athran’s side, his expression shifting from relieved to reassuring. “He won’t hurt you, lethallin. You have my word. Dorian is... he’s a good man.” Of all things, Hanin never thought he’d find himself saying that about a Tevinter magister, yet alone to a slave of the Imperium. “You will be safe tonight.”

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Athran just stood there, that lid held loosely in his hand, seeming almost unable to comprehend what he’d just been told. So, knowing who Athran was,  _knowing_  he just needed time, Hanin waited. He waited until the fog of confusion cleared from those familiar brown eyes and clarity rushed in to take its place. “I… see.” Athran lowered his hands, a kind of boneless relief washing over him as it all sank in. Turning, he leaned heavily against the table, and Hanin found himself moving closer on instinct, as though Athran were a vase in danger of sliding off. “First name basis with a  _magister,_ now?” He laughed weakly and glanced across, regarding Hanin with a slow, overwhelmed look. “You’re just… full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Hanin managed a faint smile in response. With that revelation, a portion of that pained resignation had lifted, lightening the room, clearing some of the air between them. Hanin inhaled the scent of dust and old wood, letting it fill his lungs. Even Athran seemed to have relaxed, his posture less rigid, relief evident in the way he closed his eyes for a second and just allowed himself to breathe, his task momentarily,  _mercifully_ , forgotten.

“Lethallin… let me help.”

Athran stirred. He always did, at the word  _lethallin._ The gentle offer was met with a nod, and Hanin wordlessly drew over a pair of chairs. Much the way Ralon had earlier that evening, Hanin took the container and began the process of gently concealing Athran’s vallaslin, his fingers careful, wary of the damage to his clanmate’s face. Careful not to cause him any more pain.

“Your vallaslin…” Athran murmured after a moment, a note of surprise in his voice. “It’s covered too?”

Hanin nodded, amazed Athran had only just noticed. Then again, he supposed a lot had happened very quickly. “It’s safer this way. We attract less attention.”

 _“We?”_  Athran pulled away, eyes wide. “You mean there’s someone else?”

Hanin’s mouth was poised to answer when another voice beat him to it.

“Mhmm - sure is!”

As if on cue,  Lyrene strolled into the room. How long she had been there, eavesdropping form the other side of the partition, Hanin couldn’t begin to say. Athran leaned around Hanin to see her and she waved, smiling brightly. “Athran, right? Good to finally put a face to the name. Gotta say, the Captain’s description didn’t really do you justice.” She levelled Hanin with a disappointed look. “We’re really going to have to teach you how to paint word-pictures, sir. No offense.”

Hanin was on the cusp of ordering Lyrene to go keep watch and give them some space, but the words died in his throat when he realised with a pang of shock that Athran was…

… well, he was  _laughing_.

Just quietly, as though wary of the sound. Turning back to face his clanmate, Hanin found Athran watching him, something surprisingly bright in his eyes as he shook his head. Clearing his throat, he struggled to straighten out his expression as Hanin looked between him and Lyrene. The woman just grinned in the wake of her sudden betrayal.

“Sorry, Hanin.” Athran sucked in a slow breath, relaxing slightly on the exhale. However, the attempt failed when he gave in to another soft chuckle. “It’s just… nice to know some things haven’t changed.”

For what it was worth, Hanin was simply glad something had made Athran laugh. “Yes, well...” Stiffly, he scooped more of the tinted substance onto his fingers and tilted Athran’s chin up with a gentle finger. “Maybe you can help me work on my that. My…  _word pictures._ ”

Lyrene snorted, muttering something along the lines of  _good luck_. But Hanin ignored her, because when he said it, a smile had curved the corners of Athran’s lips. It was faint. Gentle.

But it was genuine.

“… I think I can do that.”


	7. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athran heads off to perform his duties and the team reconvenes to plan the final assault - the grand theft. But sometimes, even planning the plan does not go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: violence, (very) minor character death, mentions of abuse

_ Athran released a shaky breath, his skin clammy, his hands curling and flexing by his sides as he walked a few steps behind his escort. The guard was one he’d only seen once before, but it had been recently, and it had been memorable. As they moved down the hallway the large man paused, turning, a thin smile curling up the corner of his mouth.  _

_ “Well, you’re looking better than when I left you. You elves must heal up well.” _

_ Immediately, Athran looked down, casting his gaze to the marbled floor. He was meant to show reverence to the guards as well as the guests, and the last thing he needed was to anger the man who’d already beat him senseless earlier that night. His face still ached from where he had been struck for dropping the tray, and part of him wished he’d remembered to apply the salve. It would have helped numb the area; muted the pain. _

_ He supposed a lot had happened between then and now.  _

_ After an extended pause, the guard scoffed and turned, continuing to walk. “Didn’t think I’d get many kicks out of this job, short as it is. Should thank you for being a clumsy bastard. Thought I’d die of boredom tonight.” _

_ Athran hated the mercenaries. Or some of them, at least. There were no consequences for men hired for days or weeks at a time. They just did what they liked, and so long as it didn’t directly inconvenience Talveron, they got away with it. As most could never afford slaves of their own, they often treated it like a fun little experiment; a way to get a taste of what that might be like. Athran had learned quickly to avoid such men, but this time, that seemed almost impossible. _

_ Although compared to some, this one wasn’t so bad. _

_ The guard paused, glanced down at a card of paper, then huffed. “Right. Here you are.” Reaching out, he knocked three times, then stepped away, walking back towards Athran. He paused, leaning in close, his breath hot and honey-sweet with mead. “You have fun, eh? And try keep it down. Walls are thin ‘round here.” He snorted. “Or don’t. Some folks might like a bit of a show.” _

_ It took everything Athran had to suppress a shudder as the guard slowly looked him over then left him there, standing alone in the corridor. Suddenly, he felt cold, as though instead of being surrounded by wall and stone, he was out in the open, afraid and exposed on an empty field. He wanted to run. Flee. Anything. _

_ Then he remembered the warmth of Hanin’s arms around him. How, for the first time in eleven years, he’d felt safe somewhere, even if only for a few seconds before reality had come crashing back into place.  _

_ The door creaked open, snapping Athran back to the present. Even knowing who was behind it, his heart thrummed wildly, hands growing clammy as it opened and a man appeared. He was handsome. Tall. Well-dressed in a robe and subtle jewellery, his hair neatly combed, his moustache perfectly maintained. That didn’t mean much, usually. Most of the worst people in Tevinter looked something like that. _

_ “You must be Athran, yes?” _

_ Swallowing tightly, Athran dropped his gaze, horrified that he’d actually let himself look higher than the hem of the man’s expensive robes. “Yes, my lord.” _

_ There was a pause, then Magister Pavus stepped aside. “It would be best if you came inside. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of holding conversations in the corridor.”  _

_ Athran obeyed, moving past the Magister, careful not to accidentally touch him. Some could be picky about that, and he really had no idea what to expect. He trusted Hanin as much as he could trust anyone he hadn’t seen for eleven years, which naturally left a bit of room for doubt.  _

_ Regardless, it was still more than he trusted anyone else. _

_ The door closed and Athran released a slow, shaky breath, trying to keep it as silent as possible. Magister Pavus’ footsteps were slow and careful, moving in a wide circle until he stood in front of Athran, the deep crimson of his robe a blur of colour at the edge of his vision.  _

_ “I… don’t suppose you know who I am, do you?” _

_ Athran wet his lips and bowed his head. “The Magister of House Pavus. I am here to serve.” _

_ He heard the man exhale, the sound almost uncertain. “Ah. Yes, well… that I am. Although I tend to prefer Dorian, when not conducting business.” He moved again, over towards a set of plush chairs at the side of the room. A small table sat between them, a leather case sitting on top. Athran didn’t want to know what was in that, and he remained rooted to the spot, not entirely sure what to do. Normally he would have been given orders by now. It seemed the Magister also realised this, because he cleared his throat gently. “Come. Take a seat. There is much to discuss.” _

_ Athran obeyed, settling across from the man, his heart still thumping hard against his ribcage. He knew Hanin wouldn’t lie to him. Logically, he  _ knew _ that. But no one, slave or servant or otherwise, ever wanted to be alone with a Magister in their room. It never led to anything good. _

_ “You are of clan Lavellan, yes?” _

_ Weakly, Athran nodded.  _

_ “And you have been in the Imperium for quite some time?” _

_ Again, he nodded, then hesitated. “Eleven years, my lord.” _

_ Even though he wasn’t looking directly at him, Athran saw Magister Pavus stiffen slightly.  _

_ “I see. And please, Dorian is fine. I… know it may not seem as such, but I am on your side.” _

_ If he wasn’t so utterly terrified, Athran might have laughed. As it was, he just gave a faint nod, feeling strangely light-headed with the motion, his stomach in a knot. “I was… told as much.” _

_ “You were? Ah. Excellent.” There was a measure of relief to the Magister’s words and he seemed to relax. Good for him. “That saves us some time, then. But first, I recall the incident at the party. Are you well?” _

_ This time, Athran did glance up, mostly out of sheer confusion. Magister Pavus must have read the expression on his face because he smiled kindly, shifting to clasp his hands in front of him. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but I struggle to imagine Talveron Idaris as a…. lenient man.” _

_ The throbbing pain in Athran’s face was enough of a reminder of that fact. Even if it had not been Talveron’s hand that dealt the blow, he would have condoned it without question for embarrassing him with such clumsiness. “I am fine. Thank you.” _

_ “Are you in any pain?” _

_ “No.” The response was like a reflex. He had been asked so many times in the past and no one had ever been interested in the truth. But then, Athran paused, something about the way the Magister watched him with a kind of patient concern leaving him curious to test the waters. “Yes. My eye. Sometimes. It is nothing unbearable.” _

_ “I see.” Magister Pavus nodded, then cleared his throat, turning slightly in his chair. “Adiran. Could you come here a moment?” _

_ At first, Athran wasn’t sure what to make of that. Then a door opened at the side of the room and a young man stepped in, all nervous energy and tousled hair. “Yes, D--” His bright green eyes flicked across to Athran. “I mean, ah, Lord Pavus?” _

_ “Would you mind fetching some ice from the kitchens?” The Magister’s pale grey eyes flicked across, then down, as if inspecting Athran’s form. It was hardly unusual, for him to be measured in such a way. The result, however, certainly was. “Something to eat and drink as well, if you please. Whatever you can comfortably carry alone.” _

_ “Of course.” The young man bowed, straightened, smiled warmly at Athran, then hurried out of the room.  _

_ There was a lot Athran could tell from first impressions, and he discerned two things in that brief exchange. Firstly, the young man, Adiran, was not afraid of his employer. The smile had been as much for Magister Pavus as it had been for him. Secondly, the Magister himself, who had watched with a kind of fond amusement as his servant hurried out of the room, genuinely seemed to care about him.  _

_ That or he was a fantastic liar. _

_ “Now, while we wait, I imagine you have a number of questions. I will answer what I can.” As the Magister spoke, Athran found his gaze returning to the man’s face. Dorian smiled at that, the expression encouraging as he reached out and snapped open the clasps of the leather case. “However, I find it is often easier to talk when partially distracted. It frees the mind from the burden of overthinking.” _

_ Athran watched warily as Dorian removed a board from the case, unfolding it and setting it on the table along with a number of small pieces of various shapes. He worked wordlessly as he set it up, and Athran’s curiosity quickly got the better of him. “What is that?” _

_ Dorian glanced up, and for a second, Athran feared he had become too complacent. That he had been tricked into a false sense of security; into overstepping. But quickly, a smile returned to the Magister’s face.  _

_ “A Ferelden game. They call it ‘chess’. I understand it’s quite popular among strategists.” Finishing, he sat back, two rows of pieces now standing at either end of the board; black and white. “Have you heard of it?” _

_ Slowly, Athran nodded his head. “Yes. They played it in the Free Marches too, sometimes. But I never…” He swallowed, fingers anxiously plucking at the fabric of his pants beneath the table. There was no use pretending. “I don’t know how to play.” _

_ Luckily, Dorian was not at all taken aback by the confession. Instead, his eyes almost seemed to brighten, and he waved a graceful hand towards the board.  _

_ “Would you care to learn?” _

* * *

Hanin and Lyrene practically flopped onto their cots the second they stepped back into the overflow barracks, the twin sensations of relief arriving and anxiety flooding out of them overwhelming as Launcet closed the heavy door. 

“And you’re sure this won’t be a fucking problem?” Cyrus, who had been with Launcet when Lyrene and Hanin were ‘summoned’, looked about as pleased as a rain-drenched cat. “Some Magister is going to be expecting a couple of slaves to show up at his door. What’s he going to do when they don’t?”

It was true. Hanin had to admit, the excuse had been…  _ lacking _ . After Athran and the other slaves had been gathered and sent to their respective rooms, it had taken almost another hour before a second summons arrived, this time for Hanin and Lyrene. Apparently, they were to be taken to the rooms of Magister Sildarius, with Launcet and Cyrus as their escort. Instead, of course, they had returned to the overflow barracks. 

“Do you think this is my first infiltration?” Launcet’s gaze cut between Cyrus and Hanin, as though sensing the elf’s silent agreement with the Orlesian. “I have it on good authority that Sildarius was drunk as a beggar by a brothel. With the hangover that old bastard’s going to have, he won’t remember asking for any company, yet alone enjoying it.”

Hanin’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s authority?”

“Mine.”

Hanin startled, turning, his eyes widening as Varlen slunk out of the shadows. “Sildarius was already pretty drunk at the beginning of the night, when I saw him talking to Riv,” the silver-haired elf continued. “By the end, he actually needed some servants to pretty much carry him to his room. It’ll be fine.”

“What are you doing here?”

Varlen stiffened, his resolve hardening before Hanin’s stern glare. “ _ Helping _ , obviously. Dorian can’t go pulling that stunt every night, you know. Once, sure, people won’t really ask any questions. But more than that?” Varlen shook his head. “It’ll start looking suspicious. So unless you want Athran being sent around to other Magisters - which I sure as hell  _ don’t  _ \- we need to come up with a plan. Fast.”

There was something about the way Varlen said it. So matter-of-fact. So callous, yet so undeniably true. Hanin’s jaw pulsed, teeth grinding, but eventually he had no choice but to concede he was right. As much as he hated the idea of Varlen taking the risk of being there, Hanin had to admit his insight would be valuable. “Fine. Stay.”

Varlen arched a brow, moving over to join the rest of the group. “I wasn’t really asking for permission.” When Hanin’s glare sharpened, Varlen swallowed and added quickly, “But, ah, real great to have it! Yep.  _ Super great _ . Happy to help.”

Sighing wearily, Hanin turned his attention back to Launcet. “Did you get the new rotation?”

The man nodded, gesturing towards a piece of paper already on the table. He must have dropped it off earlier in the night. “Sure did. Was able to, ah…  _ adjust  _ it, too. Just a little. Couldn’t go tampering too much or folks would get suspicious, but swapping some names here and there won’t raise any eyebrows.” Hanin reached over, taking it off the table for inspection as Launcet continued. “We’re going to get you back into the slave’s quarters tomorrow, but that’s about the only part that’s staying the same. Instead of that charming bastard who was keeping watch tonight, we’re going to have an  _ actual _ charming bastard do the job.” 

Nodding, Hanin read aloud from the roster. “Daimon: slave quarters.” He glanced up. “That’s you, Ralon.”

Ralon just grinned. “Great. Should I bring a book?”

Lyrene snorted in amusement. “Sure. Make sure it’s something sleazy, though. Gotta keep it authentic.”

The mood soured at that. Even leaving, the guard had taken it upon himself to make a lewd remark about Lyrene as she passed. It had only been the woman’s painfully tight grip on Hanin’s elbow that had stopped him from swinging around and decking the man. 

“Keep reading,” Launcet interrupted, nodding towards the roster. Obediently, Hanin returned to task, scanning until a familiar name jumped out at him.

“Ayden: southern door.” Hanin paused at that, a thought dragging him from his task as he looked up at the young man. “How did you even manage to pass as a guard?”

An almost dangerously sweet smile spread across the blond elf’s face. “Aye, well, pretty easy to hide my ears under a helmet. Sleeping in the barracks got a tad tricky, but I just shared a cot with Cassius and no one dared get close enough to bother.”

Immediately, at the sudden wave of raised brows, Cassius, who had been quietly looming at the edge of the group, rolled his eyes. “Nothing like  _ that _ . Get your heads out of the damn gutter.”

Ayden just grinned, jerking a thumb towards the tall human. “ _ See _ ? Who wouldn’t give  _ that _ a wide berth?”

Grunting, but ultimately satisfied, Hanin returned to the list. It took a little longer for him to spot another familiar name, which was testament solely to the sheer amount of security Talveron had operating at his estate. “Livia and Kian: southern sector.”

Connors exchanged a glance with Cyrus and nodded. “That will provide you with clear passage to the wall.”

“Exactly,” said Launcet, pleased that someone had put the pieces together. “Now, I’m stationed up on the back wall, but I’m not alone. That’s where the problem’s going to be.” Walking to the table, he leaned back over the map of the estate. “There are no mercenaries on wall duty, just Talveron’s private guard, which means they’re well trained and probably not  open to accepting a bribe.”

Hanin nodded. “Then we kill them.”

In truth, he had been expecting a series of groans and a few rolled eyes, but instead what he received was a tense, uncertain silence.  

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” was all Launcet said, arms folded tight across his chest. “But if that is what it takes… do it quickly and quietly. Leave no survivors. The Nightingale doesn’t want any talk getting out about who you lot actually are. If we can blame this on a rogue group of mercenaries, that would be ideal. From what I’ve seen, I can’t imagine Talveron interviewed them all personally.”

“Alright then,” Hanin said, glancing about the room. “It’s a start. But how are we--”

A loud series of thumps suddenly sounded at the door, hard enough to make it shake in its frame. Silence fell across the room, panicked glances darting about, everyone frozen in place as though they had forgotten how to move.

Then, the Dusk Squad launched into action.

Cassius had Hanin by the arm, hauling him to his feet, the others manhandling his squad in much the same way, shoving them towards the cots. “Go,” Cassius hissed, “under the cots. Hide as best you can.”

They scattered, sliding under beds, Hanin grateful for the first time in his life for the lack of armour as he shimmied his way beneath the low frame. It was a tight fit, but he managed, the floor pressed to his back, the bottom of the bed to his chest. Part of him worried if he breathed too hard, the whole frame might shift.  _ Relax. Don’t think about it.  _

From where he was, Hanin could see a slice of the scene unfolding by the door. The Dusk Squad were out in the open, all clad in Inquisition attire, three of them sitting around the table, seeming utterly unphased as whoever was outside the door pounded a second time, the act somehow increasing in aggression. Breathing out, Cassius gave a final check of the room then threw the door open. The movement was so perfectly sudden and unforgiving that the knocking man staggered forward slightly, caught off-balance as the door gave way beneath his fist. From what Hanin could tell, he wore the colours of a guard. One of Talveron’s proper soldiers, if he had to take a guess, based on the crispness of his uniform and his carefully groomed exterior.

“Right. What’s going on in here?” He demanded, recovering from his stumble, tersely tugging his coat back into place. “You are all with the Inquisition, correct?”

“Sure are.” Daimon stepped forward, his face the puppy-like picture of confused innocence. “And I’m pretty sure nothing’s going on? We’re just staying up playing a few rounds of Wicked Grace. Right lads?” 

As if on cue, Ayden, Krissa, and Livia gave a wave, the elven man smiling brightly as he fanned a handful of cards. Where those had come from, Hanin couldn’t begin to say.

“I’m winning, for the record,” Ayden announced, then yelped as Krissa kicked his shin, her scowl sharp enough to slit a throat.

“Not for long you’re not!”

“Ow - what the hell, Ly? That’s going to bruise…”

Sighing, Cassius turned away from the commotion back to the guard in the doorway. “There.  _ That _ is what is going on here. I take it there are no rules at the estate against card games?” He thumbed back at the now healthily bickering group at the table. “If the noise is the problem, I’ll give them a talking to. We’ll keep it down.”

The guard stood his ground, something about the way he was looking past Cassius through narrowed eyes spiking Hanin’s heart rate. Slowly, the guard’s posture stiffened, as though he were being drawn up by a string at the crown of his head. “I know what you’re doing in here. Come clean,  _ now _ , and I won’t report it.”

Cassius seemed at a loss for words, but Daimon quickly filled in the gap, two steps bringing him directly before the guard. “Afraid you’re going to have to be a bit more specific. Great that you know what we’re up to and all, but it’s hard to confess to something we don’t know ourselves.”

“The servants.” There was no room for argument in the guard’s tone, the words delivered sharp and clear. They sliced through the faux-squabbling of the table group like an axe through a neck. Shifting slightly, peering around the room, his hand drifted down to rest at the hilt of his sword.  _ A warning. _ “Or slaves. I caught a glimpse of their uniforms slipping through the door. I don’t know why you’ve got them in here, but it’s over now.” When he was met with nothing more than stunned silence, he gave a frustrated sigh. “Listen. It’s late. Just bring them out and I’ll get them back to their quarters. So long as you haven’t done something stupid, like roughed them up, there doesn’t need to be a fuss over it.”

Cassius and Daimon exchanged a slow, uncertain glance. Then, after a moment, Cassius nodded and Daimon took a step away, removing himself from the conversation. “Alright,” Cassius said, spreading his hands. “You got us. It’s hard to resist the temptation of company after so long on the road.” He cleared his throat, turning towards the beds, the guard warily moving further into the room. “You heard the man! Jig is up. Come on out, you two.”

Slowly, not entirely sure what they were thinking, Hanin did as he was told, sliding out from under the bed. Or, more correctly, shoving the bed off of  _ him _ , then rising to stand awkwardly in the space left behind. Lyrene performed a bit more gracefully, her expression sculpted into what Hanin hoped was a mask of fear. If not, he would have to find some way to make all of this up to her when they were back at Skyhold. 

Luckily, none of the others took this as their cue to reveal themselves, and remained concealed. 

The guard eyed them over carefully as they stood, revealed, lingering for longer on Lyrene. Hanin knew that look well. It was one he had given his squad many times. The guard was checking them for signs of injury, so Hanin made an effort to stand taller and raise his chin.

After a moment, the guard grunted. “Alright. Come on, then. You two know you’re not meant to be around the soldiers’ barracks, yet alone  _ in _ one.”

Hanin was about to follow his instructions but noticed Lyrene was remaining rooted in place. As though she was terrified. 

Or as though she was waiting for something to happen.

“They won’t be in trouble, will they?” Ayden asked suddenly, lurching to his feet and moving to the guard’s side. “Please, ser, it was just meant to be a bit of fun. We didn’t know they weren’t allowed.”

The guard regarded Ayden for a long, calculating moment. “Do you take me for a fool? You wouldn’t have hidden them unless you knew they shouldn’t be here. As for the slaves… I don’t deliver punishments. Just enforce the altus’ orders.” 

“But--”

The guard raised a hand sharply, cutting off Ayden’s distressed protests, but something seemed to give way before the young man’s imploring. “Alright, look… I’ll keep it quiet as best I can. The altus wants this to all go smoothly, and  _ this _ … it isn’t ideal for any of us.” He turned, brow creasing when he realised Hanin and Lyrene hadn’t moved. “Come on, then. Quickly and quietly. I’ll get you back befor--”

Suddenly, there was movement. Like a lioness pouncing on her prey, Livia was on him, the belt from her uniform wrapped tight around his neck. The guard jerked and staggered, rasping, hands flying to his throat, but she held fast, her once soft expression hard and grim. The chatty nervousness that seemed to shadow the woman had all but vanished, and she twisted the leather tighter as he bucked and clawed at the belt, his throat,  _ her _ . She didn’t even flinch when he reached down, groping blindly for his blade, ready to slash blindly to save himself. 

“Ah. Poor bastard’s looking for this, ay?” Ayden grinned as the guard’s hand passed through air where his sword used to be, then raised the blade himself, turning it over curiously in the lamplight. “It’s nice, you know. Think I might keep it. Bit of a  _ souvenir _ .” 

The guards movements were slowing, aborted coughs jerking his body as his lungs tried to pull in air. He sank to his knees, Livia’s hands still affixed to the belt, pulling it tight, crushing his throat. His face was almost as red as his uniform now, veins bulging at his temples, eyes wide and blood-shot as his fingernails raked his skin in his struggle to pull the leather from his neck. Slowly, almost inevitably, he slumped, a few more broken attempts to breathe causing him to spasm, until he went suddenly, impossibly still. Blood ran down his neck in slow trickles, soaking into his collar. Livia, expression blank, kept the belt tight well after he stopped moving.

“ _ Shit _ ,” Lyrene breathed, taking a shaky step back. Hanin couldn’t help but agree. None of them were strangers to death, it was true. But with a blade, it seemed different, somehow. Cleaner, or perhaps just less personal. Stab a man in the right place, and you can comfortably leave knowing he would eventually die. You were free to just move onto the next opponent on the battlefield. 

But _ that…  _

“Y-You killed him.” Darren had made his way out from under one of the cots, his face stark-white, eyes staring at where Livia still held the corpse of the guard in a kneeling position. He seemed almost transfixed by it, stunned into a kind of emotional delay. “W… Why did you do that?”

Looking at the ‘Dusk Squad’ now, Hanin could see it. For the first time, he realised with no small amount of certainty that these men and women who had been joking and laughing with them moments ago, were  _ agents _ . Assassins. Killers and murderers and thieves, brought together by order of the Nightingale to complete a task.  _ His _ task. They were dangerous.  _ Ruthless _ . Willing to get their hands dirty and cast aside morality to ensure success..

They were exactly the kind of people he needed.

But even knowing that, the look on Darren’s face made Hanin wish they weren’t.

“It was us or him, kid.” Daimon’s gaze cut away from the guard’s body, something cold and calculating in those brown eyes that matched his sister’s. It was entirely at odds with the person Hanin thought he knew. “We get sprung here, and it’s all our necks on the line.”

He didn’t even cringe at his choice of words, but Darren did. “But he… he was just doing his job. Wasn’t he?” He searched around imploringly at the crowd of faces. “ _ Wasn’t he?  _ I-I thought…”

“We’re not here to do things gently.” Kian spoke for what Hanin felt was the first time since they’d met. The young man’s expression was somber yet resolved as he leaned back on the edge of the table. “But this isn’t on your conscience. It’s on ours. It’s why we’re here. What we’re here  _ for. _ ”

Mortified, words failing, Darren turned to Hanin, distress seeming to radiate from him despite his silence as he sought something from him. Disapproval. Reassurance. Disgust?

Hanin just shifted his attention to Launcet, who was dusting himself off miserably as he crossed the room. “What do you plan to do with the body?”

Grunting, clearly far from thrilled, Launcet nudged the guard’s knee with his foot. Only when there was no response did Livia finally allow him to thud heavily to the floor. The most off-putting part was probably the way she slipped the belt back around her waist, as though it hadn’t just been used to choke a man to death. 

“Might have to get creative with this one. Some mercenary would’ve been easy enough to deal with, but one of Talveron’s own?”  Launcet exhaled in a rush, running a hand down his face. “Maker’s  _ fucking  _ balls _... _ ”

Daimon clapped him on the back good-naturedly. “C’mon, Launcet. Gotta earn your keep.” He paused, gaze drifting down to the guard, then shrugged. “At least we kept it clean for you. Good call with the belt, Liv. I was just going to knife him.”

Livia gave him a half-smile, her old mask slow to return. “Thanks. Figured we could use as little mess as possible.” She scuffed the floor with her boot. “Besides, it’s real hard to get blood out of wood...”

Turning away from the Dusk Squad as they argued over what to do with the corpse, Hanin found himself faced with a different kind of problem. Darren was sitting on the edge of one of the cots, Lyrene and Cyrus by his side. Ralon and Connors slunk nearby, the Antivan seeming perturbed while Connors showed about as much interest in the affair as she might to a tree in passing. Sighing, sensing this wasn’t something he could just ignore, Hanin walked over to the group. Each step felt heavier as he approached. Each step left him less certain of what he was going to say.

“They murdered him.” Darren was speaking softly as Hanin drew near. There was less horror in his voice, now. Less  _ everything. _ He just seemed... lost. Shaking his head, he looked up at his squadmates. “We don’t do that, do we? Just…  _ kill _ people because it’s convenient?”

“No, we don’t,” Lyrene said softly, her arm wrapped around the young man’s shoulders. “We don’t, Darren.”

“But  _ they _ do.” There was something about the way Cyrus said it; a kind of unspoken certainty to the words; that left Hanin both reassured and unsettled. “It’s why they’re here. The Nightingale hired them for this.”

“I know. I do. It’s just…” Darren just shook his head. “How are you all just  _ okay _ with this?”

“Because the alternative would have been worse.” Hanin’s voice projected far more confidence than he felt, but when Darren turned those shocked eyes on him, something wavered. “Thata doesn’t mean it was right. Or just.”

“Then what  _ does  _ it mean?”

“It was necessary.”

Sometimes, when people change how they see you, it happens slowly and silently. Often, it’s strung out over a long series of events; events that form a picture different to what they imagined. Eventually, painfully, they realise, with ever-increasing clarity, that you were never that picture to start with.

But sometimes, it happens in the span of a sentence. 

And Hanin  _ knew _ . As Darren looked away, defeat written in the the curve of his shoulders, he knew he had lost something. Something important. Something that had been freely given the moment he was introduced to the young man as his Captain. 

_ Trust. _

There had never been a moment where Darren questioned him. Argued with him. _ Defied  _ him. But this time, it was different. This time, the young man couldn’t seem to find a way to agree, even though part of him was undoubtedly desperate to. He couldn’t find a way to justify what had happened, even if it meant standing his ground alone. Even if it meant going against the word of his Captain. Even if it meant questioning what he was told to be true

And, with all the doubt he carried, Hanin couldn’t help but feel that was for the best.


End file.
